


DESCENT

by Wolfiekins



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adult Language, Angry!Sam, Angst, Boy King!Sam, Brainy!Sam, M/M, Masturbation, Pan!Sam, Sam-Centric, Violence, Yellow-Eyed!Sam, established wincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 03:00:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2635544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfiekins/pseuds/Wolfiekins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's adrift and unhinged after Dean's dragged to Hell.  The one thing he's sure of, though, is that he's gonna kill Lilith and get Dean back, no matter what the cost.  Written November 2009 for <a class="i-ljuser-profile" href="http://lotrabc.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://lotrabc.livejournal.com/"><b>lotrabc</b></a> via <a class="i-ljuser-profile" href="http://spn-j2-xmas.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://spn-j2-xmas.livejournal.com/"></a><b>spn_j2_xmas</b>.  Gap-filler between <i>No Rest For The Wicked</i> (3x16) and <i>Lazarus Rising</i> (4x01) that chronicles Sam's lost summer and his quest to get his beloved Dean back.  </p><p>WARNINGS:  Established Wincest, Angst, Adult Language, Angry!Sam, Pan!Sam, Yellow-Eyed!Sam, Brainy!Sam, Violence, Masturbation, Marking, Graphic Sexual Situations</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The End

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I own neither the SUPERNATURAL franchise nor any of the characters. No offence intended nor monies made through this presentation. For entertainment purposes only.
> 
>   
> 

 

 

_**May 2, 2008 - New Harmony, Indiana** _

 

Ruby's abandoned host drops to the floor as Lilith smokes out and disappears through the ceiling grate.

Sam drops the Knife, lunges across the room and sprawls to the floor, sliding his hand behind Dean's head.

“Dean, Dean no—”

Dean's eyes are wild, wide, his pupils dilated. His lips tremble, try to form a word maybe, and more blood trickles from the corners of his mouth.

“No,” Sam repeats, leaning down to attempt to hear what Dean's saying. He feels the warmth of Dean's blood seeping into the fabric of his jeans. Squeezing his eyes shut, he sucks in deep breaths. He can't think, can't breathe, and he's on the verge of passing out. Seconds stretch into agony, and he wishes he could whisk them both anywhere, away from this nightmare and back to reality.

“Ssss,” Dean croaks, and Sam blinks back hot tears.

“Hang on, man,” Sam says. “Just hang on.”

Dean aspirates more blood and his chest flutters up, pauses a moment, then slumps. Both of Dean's hands splay out on the floorboards and finally fall still.

Sam feels his tears sear trails down his cheeks.

Waves of panic surge up, threatening to consume him.

He'd thought he'd prepared himself for this, thought he'd built up walls to protect himself from the inevitable. He'd seen Dean die over a thousand times before, and as horrible as that'd been, this is far worse.

The barriers he'd built crumble in a nanosecond at the sight of Dean's shredded chest.

There's _so_ much blood, _Dean's_ blood, and it's everywhere.

It's for real this time.

He tries to keep it in, to keep Dean from spilling out onto the hardwood floor, but it's useless. The more he tries, the worse it gets, like trying to hold sand in his fist.

Dean's silent and still now, his eyes unfocused and glassy.

More time passes, and there's a final, muffled gurgle from the ruins of Dean's throat.

The Death Rattle.

“Oh, man,” Sam whimpers, pulling Dean's body to a sitting position and hugging him tight. The room tilts, and Sam holds on, certain that if he lets go he'll spin away into the Abyss.

He shuts his eyes again, hoping it'll help.

Dean's always been the rock, his anchor, the one immutable constant in his universe.

And now...

He buries his face into the crook of his dead brother's neck, unwilling to let go, Dean's still warm body obscenely comforting.

He cradles Dean and time splays wide, meaningless. He gently rocks back and forth, his wracking sobs slowly subsiding.

He can almost breathe again when the approaching thud of hurried footsteps jars him back to some semblance of reality.

The heavy bootfalls skid to a stop, punctuated by a harsh intake of breath.

“Sweet Jesus.”

A hand clamps onto his shoulder, squeezing it tight.

“God —”

Sam opens his eyes to find Bobby kneeling beside him, face pale, mouth agape.

“I couldn't,” he stammers, lifting his right hand from the mess of Dean's stomach and staring at his blood-soaked palm. “I couldn't stop it. I couldn't keep it all in. The Hellhounds—”

Bobby covers his mouth and looks away.

The empty house is dead silent.

Sam swallows hard, looking from Bobby to Dean and back again. “Bobby, I—” His hastily reconstructed resolve fails him. He needs to think, needs to move, but the weight is just too much.

Bobby gulps in some air, his face paler than ever. “We really _need_ to get Dean out of here. We can't be around when the cops show up.”

Sam nods. “Uh-huh. Yeah.”

“Good, that's real good. Are you hurt?”

Sam shakes his head. He doesn't know how he managed to survive unscathed, or why. And without Dean, he pretty much doesn't care. “Yeah, I'm okay,” he hears himself say.

Bobby doesn't respond, launching himself toward the side board and ripping open drawers.

Sam's vaguely aware of a rising tide of voices coming from outside. He gazes at Dean, whose eyes are still wide open, blank.

Empty of everything that made him Dean.

_“Dean, we're out of time. I'm going to summon Ruby.”_

_“No, Sam.”_

_“C'mon, man. She can help. I'm sure of it.”_

_“I said no, and I mean no.”_

“Let's get him wrapped up and back to the car.” Bobby drops a pile of table linens next to Dean's body.

Oddly frozen, Sam just stares at them, unsure of what to do.

_“I'm tired, Sammy.”_

_“Don't you dare give up on me, Dean. 'Cause I'm not giving up on you.”_

“Son, we've got to move. The demons are gone, and it won't take long for the people outside to figger out somethin's up in this house.” Bobby shakes out some of the table cloths and lays them out next to Dean. “Sam? Are ya with me?” He shakes Sam's shoulder.

“But—”

“Let's get him safe. Now.”

Sam releases Dean and lowers him to the floor.

Bobby fusses with the linens, pauses for a second and then closes Dean's eyes. “I'll get his feet.”

Sam moves, but he's slow and heavy, like he's underwater.

A beam of light flashes through the windows and splashes across the walls.

“Sam! Move your ass, boy! You don't want to leave him here, do ya?”

Sam's overloaded brain finally clicks, forcing his limbs to move faster. Bobby's right; they can't just leave Dean here. There's no telling what would happen to him...what _they_ would do to him. He can't abandon Dean.

Especially now.

Anger seeps into Sam's brain, anger toward Lilith, toward Azazel, toward every fucking demon in Hell.

He focuses on that sensation, drawing strength from it, moves past denial, skips over acceptance and right on to revenge.

Together, they hoist Dean up and place him in the middle of the table-cloths. They wrap him up, securing the linens as best they can, the voices outside growing louder and closer with every passing second.

Sam's on auto-pilot now, and the rest of the world fades away. Bobby's lips move, but he doesn't hear the words. The chattering voices recede to the back of his brain, nothing but a dull buzz.

He slings Dean's body over his shoulder and follows Bobby through the dead house and into the darkness outside. His heart thuds in his chest, a hollow roar filling his ears. They move away from the crowd and flashing lights out front, crashing though hedges and ornamental bushes, scaling low fences and garden walls.

Sam carries his burden effortlessly as they scribe a wide circuit through the maze of suburban hell, finally making it back to where they'd left the Impala.

Sam lays Dean down in the back seat and fusses with the ruined table cloths.

_”What's with the auto shop, Dean?”_

_“You're gonna have to know how to do this if you're gonna take proper care of my baby someday. Hand me that box wrench. No, wait. You do it.”_

_“Are you sure, man?”_

_“Yeah, wavy gravy. The problem's with the carb. Start by disconnecting the fuel line, here.”_

“Do ya have the keys?” Bobby repeats from behind him, his voice laced with urgency as sirens wail a few streets over.

“There's gonna be blood all over the seat,” Sam observes, staring at the motionless form that used to be his brother. “We'll have to clean it up.” He glances to Bobby, who nods grimly and whips open the driver's door. “Dean's got 'em,” he replies to no one.

_”Dean, I'm not gonna lose you. Ever.”_

_“Calm down, Sasquatch. I'm still here. For now.”_

Sam shudders at the memory of that kiss, barely days ago. He leans down, pressing his lips to Dean's one last time, and they're all coppersticky and cold.

Lifeless.

Wrong.

The Impala revs to life. “Sam! We're leavin'!” Bobby yells, slamming his door.

Sam pulls himself away from Dean, slamming the rear door and rounding the back of the Impala. He slides into his usual seat, glancing to his left.

It's wrong that Dean isn't behind the wheel.

Bobby slams the shifter into drive and jams the accelerator down before Sam has a chance to shut his door.

He notices the ignition wires hanging down from Bobby's hot-wiring job.

That'll have to be fixed, too, Sam thinks. Can't have 'em loose and dangling like that.

They drive blindly through the maze of curving streets that lead nowhere, headlights off and radio blaring the same cassette that Dean had crammed in the player barely an hour before.

Sam looks over his shoulder into the back seat as Blind Faith sings about finding their way back home.

 

_**May 3, 2008 - Pontiac, Illinois** _

 

Sam leans on the window frame of their... _his_ hotel room, nursing a beer and staring at the busy street three stories below. Dusk is morphing into full-on night, and most of the passing cars' headlights are on. He watches as they crawl across the wet pavement, pedestrians sometimes darting out into the street and impeding their progress.

The next moment, the huge, neon sign of the hotel blazes to life, bathing everything in a sickly, red glow.

Like blood.

He hasn't slept in over forty-eight hours, yet he's still not tired. Adrenaline rush, maybe. Or just that he doesn't _want_ to sleep, doesn't want to close his eyes out of fear of who and what he'll see.

Despite the fact that he'd just taken a long, hot shower, he feels dirty, soiled somehow. He can still feel the stickiness of Dean's dried blood on his hands, even though he's probably scrubbed off layers of skin in the scalding shower. His clean set of clothes don't feel right, and everything's off, messed up.

Unreal.

The police scanner mumbles importantly to itself, the volume turned way down. He doesn't know why he snapped it on. More from habit than anything else. Plus the fact that the room was too quiet with it off.

Dead quiet.

Empty.

Without Dean, the whole fucking _world_ seems empty.

Not to mention pretty pointless.

He drains his bottle and dumps the empty into the stained sink of the kitchenette. “You ready for another?” he calls out, leaning into the fridge for two more cold ones. Without waiting for an answer, he pops both caps and joins Bobby at the small table in the center of the room. He slides one of the bottles of Budweiser across the scarred tabletop.

Bobby eyes the fresh beer as if it might bite, and Sam notes that the bottle cradled in Bobby's fingers is barely half empty.

Sam wishes they had some Jack handy as Bobby stares at him some more, a host of questions clearly weighing down his gaze. He knows Bobby means well, and he's appreciative of the support, but what he really needs is for Bobby to leave.

He needs to be alone. To get down to business.

“What's on your mind?” Sam says, picking at the label of his beer bottle, knowing full well what's eating Bobby. Best to go through the motions, at least.

Bobby looks up from under the brim of his baseball cap, weary eyes rimmed with red. He drains his beer, sliding the empty away and grabbing the fresh one. “It ain't right,” he says, his voice low. “Dean deserved to go out like a Hunter.”

“He did.”

“You know what I mean. He shoulda had a proper funeral pyre, instead of bein' buried in a cheap pine box less than three feet underground.”

“I didn't want his body destroyed. He'll need it.”

“Like it ain't gonna be worm food anyway. That is if wolves and whatever else don't get to him in the meantime.” Bobby's lips harden to a thin line. “He's gone, son.”

“I've made up my mind.”

Bobby downs a good portion of his Budweiser. “I bet you have.”

“He's my brother,” Sam replies flatly.

“And he's dead, Sam!” Bobby spits out, his temper flaring again. “We did our best, and it didn't work. No matter what we all said, weren't none of us that really expected to get Dean outta that deal. Don't think you're the only one who's all torn up inside. I can barely believe it myself. It don't seem real, but we've just gotta accept what is.”

Sam shakes his head. Bobby just doesn't get it. “I'm not giving up on him.”

“Accepting Dean's death ain't givin' up, boy.”

“Right. So I should have just stood around and watched Dean die after the accident, right? Or just sat around with my thumb up my ass after his electrocution?” Sam stands and stalks back to his window, upending his Bud. “I got him back before, and I'll get him back again.”

Bobby slams his beer bottle down on the table. “Do you hear what your sayin'? How many times are you gonna drag him back?”

“He sold his soul for me, to bring _me_ back. Can you understand what that means? Dean gave up his life for me, Bobby. How can I do nothing? What kind of brother would I be, huh?”

“More wrongs ain't gonna make it right. Now listen—”

Sam whirls around. “No, _you_ listen!” He scratches away at the thin scab covering Dean's death, allowing the tiniest bit of rage to escape. He can feel it course through him, shoring him up. “Dean's in Hell, Bobby. Writhing in The Pit. I'm _not_ leaving him there.”

“So what, you'll make another deal with another demon and start the whole crazy cycle up all over again?” Bobby throws up his hands. “When are ya gonna learn?”

“You don't understand.”

“Don't you _dare_ try'n tell me what I get and don't get. You boys are family to me; always have been.” Bobby places both hands on Sam's shoulders. “I couldn't love ya more if either of ya were my own flesh and blood. _You_ better understand _that_.”

Sam glares down at Bobby, wrenching himself free. “Really? So you love Dean so much that you're content to let him rot in Hell? You love him so much that you're not going to lift a finger to help him?” He knows he's pushing far more than he should, but he's got no other choice. He doesn't want to hurt Bobby, but he can't stop himself. He can see the pain in Bobby's eyes and goes for broke. “That's great. Good damn thing I love my brother a lot more than you do. A _lot_ more.”

Bobby grabs his beer with a shaky hand. “You don't know what you're sayin'”

“Oh, I do. And so do you. You've known about us for awhile now. Don't try to pretend you don't.” Sam watches as Bobby's expression collapses.

He guzzles more beer and turns away. “I never said nothin' 'cause it wasn't any of my business. I ain't the judgin' type, neither.” He moves between Sam and the window, his eyes more tired than Sam has ever seen them. “The Hunter's life ain't easy. I know it better'n anyone. And if you an' Dean found a way to make it work for yourselves, then more power to ya. Not like you had any other options, anyhow.” He crosses the shabby room. “But you can't let your feelins for him cloud your judgment, that's all I'm tryin' to say.”

Sam tips his bottle to his lips, the last of the cool liquid numbing his tongue.

Of course Dean means more to him than anything. They're brothers, partners, best friends... _and_ lovers. Either or any combination of those should be enough of a reason to get him back. Add to that the fact that Dean's burning in Hell, and it's a pretty clear moral imperative. It's also clear that no matter what Bobby just said, he doesn't get it.

“I'm getting Dean out of Hell. Whatever I have to do, I'm bringing him back. He'd do the same for me.”

Bobby shakes his head. “There's no getting through to ya, is there? Every bit as stubborn and pig-headed as your Dad. Typical fuckin' Winchester.”

Silence hangs heavy in the room, the police scanner abruptly mute.

Only the faint sound of traffic from the street below intrudes.

They face each other like a pair of wild west gunmen, each waiting for the other to flinch.

Sam stands his ground, and it's Bobby who blinks first.

“Sam—”

“Time to go, Bobby. I need to be alone now, to think things through,” Sam says, grabbing another beer. “I'll give you a call in a couple of days.” He opens the door to the hallway. “Thanks for all your help—with Dean, I mean.”

Bobby sets down his bottle and shrugs into his jacket. Slinging his duffel over his shoulder, he brushes past and leaves without another word, the slam of the door ringing in Sam's ears.

Sam moves back to his window, sipping the Bud. With his free hand, he fingers Dean's charm now around his neck. He watches Bobby cross the street below and drive off without looking back.

He stands there for a long time, drinking his beer as the world goes by.

There's no way that Bobby could really get a handle on it.

No one could know the depths of the bond that he shared with Dean.

They'd been everything to each other for as long as he could remember.

Dean has always been there for him. Always.

So it wasn't really a question of _whether_ to get Dean back, as much as it was of how and when. Well, _when_ was as soon as possible. As to the _how_...

Sam grabs his laptop and sits at the table. In less than a minute, he's hacked into a nearby wireless network.

He's got a few ideas of how to begin, who to tap for help. He's built up some contacts over the last few years, a few Hunters that know of Bobby by name and reputation only. Definitely time to call on those folks.

The other thing he's sure of is that he can't hold back anymore. He's going to need to use every weapon at his disposal, even those that he's shied away from in the past. Like his ability to see the future and his telekinesis.

He's going to quit fighting who and what he is, quit the hand-wringing and open himself up.

Just like Ava did back in Cold Oak.

There are things deep down inside him that he'd never shared with anyone, not even Dean. A darkness that he knows is linked to the demon blood flowing through his veins.

Something that can lead him to his destiny.

Not the destiny Azazel had in mind, though. A new one, one of his own making.

And now's the time to unbury all those things and put them to good use.

To flip those switches.

Because nothing is going to stop him from finding and killing Lilith.

Whatever the cost, he's getting his Dean back.

 


	2. Revelations

_**May 13, 2008 – Kankakee, Illinois** _

 

Sam knows he's slipping, losing it, like skidding out of control on black ice in slow motion. 

He's got to keep his shit together, because he's the only one that can get the job done. 

He's got to stay frosty. 

Dean's depending on it.

He huddles in the shadows, keeping a close eye on the alley. It's freezing for the middle of May, and he curses himself for not bringing his flask along. “C'mon, hurry the fuck up,” he says, checking to make sure the Knife is secure in its sheath for like the hundredth time.

His dream...or vision...from last night has brought him to Kankakee. Hopefully demon number five will be the one to break his losing streak.

As soon as Bobby left him alone in Pontiac, Sam had lingered, working on embracing his powers rather than blocking them. The effects had been totally amazing. He'd dreamed like a motherfucker that very first night, and every night after that.

Visions and premonitions, all involving demons. 

He'd spent his days on-line or at libraries, studying articles and texts that dealt with mental discipline and directed dreaming, meditation and thought projection, telekinesis and mind reading. 

The speed with which his abilities progressed was astounding, and a bit scary. Ava'd been right: the learning curve _was_ crazy.

Within a few days, he found that he could sense demons nearby. There was no shortage of them, especially after Lilith's little dog and pony show. 

Another few days, and he could feel the presence of every demon within five miles of him. 

And a few days after that, he was able to hear their thoughts, too. 

He'd lost a few nights' sleep after that breakthrough, wave after wave of dark, murky thoughts filling his head until he'd felt his brain would melt out of his ears. If nothing else, it'd lit a fire under his ass to figure out how to block them out. 

Once he'd had that trick down, it'd been pretty easy to learn how to focus on just one demon's thoughts at a time, sort of like being able to listen to a single person talk in a crowded room. 

Unlike Ava, though, he couldn't summon demons. But he sure as hell could track them down.

Less than ten days after Dean's death, Sam set out on his first demon dragnet.

He'd had a rough time tackling the first handful of demons in and around Pontiac, though. Somehow they'd known he was there, so they hadn't been too surprised when he'd shown up with salt and holy water. 

The first two encounters went to crap almost instantly, and he'd been forced to use the Kinfe, killing the hosts before being able to extract any useful information from either demon.

The third and fourth demons hadn't known anything of value concerning Lilith's whereabouts. Sam'd been able to exorcise both hellspawn, leaving one host dead and the other nearly comatose. 

The four strike-outs did little to lift his spirits. And there was the huge, yawning hole in his gut that wouldn't go away, no matter how much Jack and Johnnie he sucked down. 

The absence of Dean is an almost palpable thing, like a semi-solid wall he keeps bumping into when he isn't paying attention. 

There were times when he'd been researching in the hotel room that he'd catch a glimpse of Dean out of the corner of his eye: Dean sitting on the edge of the bed cleaning his gun, or leafing through one of his skin mags, or just sitting at the table, watching him. Some mornings he'd wake up, still bleary eyed and groggy, certain that Dean was right there next to him in bed. 

He'd chalked the hallucinations up to an overactive imagination and way too much booze. 

Rationally, he knows it isn't possible that Dean's spirit is appearing. 

Dean's in Hell, end of story.

His dreams aren't helping, either. Peppered in with his visions, the dreams always start out the same, a kind of instant replay of that last night in New Harmony. No matter what he does to change things, no matter how hard he tries, Dean always dies.

Somewhere, the Trickster's probably laughing his ass off.

“Fucker,” Sam breathes, the chill working its way through his thin soled athletic shoes. He stares up and down the empty alley, focusing on the rusted metal exit door smack in the middle of it. 

He knows exactly who he's looking for. Louis Kovacs, a cable guy from Kankakee. Late twenties, single, average. And host to a demon, as it happens. The closest one left to Pontiac. Seems word had gotten out that he'd started hunting hellspawn, and they'd apparently moved elsewhere. 

Except for this one. Which was a bit off, but Sam wasn't complaining. 

He toys with the idea of heading back to the Impala to warm up when the door clicks and opens, a blast of Thirty-Eight Special cracking the silence. 

“Bingo.”

Cable Guy Louis stumbles out of the bar, waves to someone inside, and slams the door. 

Sam watches as Cable Guy leans against the door and fumbles with his car keys, dropping them and nearly falling over trying to pick them up. The next instant, he's wobbling down the alley, singing to himself. 

Exactly like the vision.

Sam closes the distance between them easily. Cable Guy is totally oblivious, happily slaughtering the lyrics to “Hold On Loosely”. Sam clamps the chloroform soaked rag over Cable Guy's mouth, and he slumps to the wet pavement like a sack of potatoes.

“Man, shut up already.” 

The guy couldn't carry a tune if he'd had a bucket.

_~*~ * ~*~_

Sam double checks the ropes securing Cable Guy to the chair and then his pulse, verifying that all is set. He throws another log into the fireplace, which isn't completely necessary, but it's freakin' chilly in the abandoned house.

For some reason, demon interrogation simply demands a roaring fire. 

Sam's a stickler for little details like that.

It's been a bitch to locate a house with a working fireplace, even though there's no shortage of empty places to choose from around town. 

The economy may be shit everywhere, but it was especially shitty in Kankakee.

Besides, the house search had taken his mind off of Dean, at least for a little while.

“Wha...where?” Cable Guy mumbles.

“About time.” Sam smacks the guy, hard.

“Where am I? Who—” Cable Guy's eyes go wide. _Really_ wide. His mouth works, but nothing comes out.

Sam uncorks his bottle of holy water. “Let's cut the bullshit, okay? I know you're in there, so let's just get this over with. Answer my questions, and I won't have to get all Medieval on your ass.” 

Cable Guy squirms in the chair, struggling against the ropes. “No,” he finally manages to splutter. “No!” It thrashes its head from side to side, eyes going black. “Not _you_!”

Sam steps back in surprise. He's dealt with dozens of demons, and he's never seen one act like this. He'd poured it on a bit thick, but that didn't explain the demon's reaction. 

It was...scared. 

More than that, it seemed to be terrified. Of him.

“Whoa, hold on,” Sam says. “I just wanna talk.”

The demon stops thrashing, its eyes wide. “Let me go. Let me go!” it wails, staring at the painted Devil's Trap on the ceiling and clearly panicking at being trapped inside its host. 

Sam dumps the pretense of a nice conversation and invades the demon's mind. He shifts through the tangled mess of red thoughts, roiling knots of gibberish and nonsense, slashed through and through with sheer, unadulterated terror. 

There's nothing of much use that Sam can glean, other than the demon's name and the fact that it's a definite newbie, of the lowest possible pay grade. 

The thing begins to scream now, bloodcurdling shrieks that make Sam's skin crawl.

This was _so_ not good. Anyone within a mile radius could hear the damn noise.

The first hints of his own panic welling up inside him, Sam instinctively raises his right hand in a classic calming gesture.

The demon ceases yelling immediately, its mouth falling open, its expression going instantly blank.

Sam steps closer as tendrils of black smoke trickle from the corners of its mouth.

He moves his hand away and the smoke responds. He concentrates on the smoke, on yanking it right the fuck out, curling his fingers as if pulling on something, and the smoke literally showers down and onto the floor. He keeps going, clenching his fist tighter and tighter until the last of the demon puddles around the chair, condensing down further and further, until only ash remains.

Sam unclenches his fist, falling to his knees. His head's about to explode, and he can taste blood in his mouth. “Shit,” he wheezes, wiping more blood from his nose. 

What the fuck?

“Oh, man, I'm _never_ doing Jaeger shots again.”

Sam tries to focus on Cable Guy, who's staring right back at him with a pair of bloodshot, but decidedly blue, eyes. “Louis? Louis Kovacs?”

“That's me, but who are you?” Louis replies, more bemused than anything. He glances at the ropes binding him to the chair. “Did Brumley put you up to this? Hey, no offense, but I need to take a rain check. Got an early shift tomorrow.”

Sam slumps to the floor and laughs for the first time in weeks.

 

_**May 17, 2008 – Baraboo, Wisconsin** _

 

Sam picks up on pulling demons pretty fast. By the time he gets to Baraboo to check out reports of a nasty poltergeist at the Al Ringling Theater, he's successfully yanked five out of their hosts. And all five people survived—more or less.

He hadn't even bothered going through the usual motions with the last one; he'd just walked up behind the woman, put up his hand and turned her around right there on the deserted sidewalk. He'd pulled and zapped her demon in less than a minute, leaving her definitely bewildered but demon-free as he hauled ass back to the Impala.

Really, it was sorta cool. And just the thing he needs.

The accidental breakthrough with Louis buoys him, slows the skidding sensation that's taken up permanent residence in his gut. It doesn't do a thing to plug the hole inside him, but he knows that nothing can take care of that. 

Nothing but getting his brother back, that is.

And even though the dreams keep on coming as strong as ever, he can not only direct them, but now he can control them. 

Dean _never_ dies anymore. 

All he's got to do is to make his dreams a reality.

It eats away at him that his plan to save his brother is so damn thin. All he's got to go on is that Lilith holds Dean's contract. So finding the bitch is top priority. He doubts she'll just release Dean if asked politely, so finding a way to force her to do it also ranks pretty high on his list. Killing her outright is one option, but there's no guarantee that would automatically release Dean. 

More damn questions than answers.

He's scoured the net and called in every favor from every hunter and demon expert he knows, and he's come up with nothing that could help him force a demon to do anything against its will. 

But as frustrating as that's been, he's still got an ace in his pocket.

He'd never guessed that being a bona fide freak would come in handy.

Sam's researched the phenomenon of pulling demons, and he's not surprised he hasn't heard of it before. There's precious little to be found about it, except for a few oblique references in some obscure texts from the Middle Ages. What strikes him about the passages are the lines that clearly refer to blood as part of the process. 

Demon blood. As in the _drinking of_.

He's found nothing to support that assertion, anywhere. 

Even his Dad's journal proves useless.

He stares at his new cell phone, the urge to call Bobby almost impossible to ignore. 

Sure, Bobby might be able to help, but he can't draw anyone else into this. Especially Bobby. 

He'd ditched his old cell and gotten the new one, with a new identity to boot. He'd buried his tracks to make sure no one could find him. Only one person could track down Wedge Antilles, and that person is trapped in The Pit at the moment.

What the hell would he say, even if he _did_ make the call?

_Hey, Bobby, it's me, Sam. So I've found that I can pull demons from their hosts just by using my freaky mind powers, and, well, not just that, because Azazel bled in my mouth when I was a baby, so I've got demon blood in me. Anyway, I read something in this old text that indicates that drinking demon blood enhances the demon pulling process. What do you think?_

Nope. Not gonna happen.

Wimping out and crying for help _isn't_ an option. 

This is something he has to do on his own. He'll work things through. 

He _has_ to.

_~*~ * ~*~_

The poltergeist in the theater turns out to be nothing more than a particularly vocal Death Echo.

After a bit of digging through the archives of the local newspaper, Sam easily identifies the spirit, makes contact, and sends it off to the Great Beyond. 

He's slipping out of the theater when he senses it. A demon. _Really_ close by. 

He focuses on it, scoping out its exact location, barely two blocks away.

Its thoughts are clear, easy to read. 

Sam quickens his pace when he hears Lilith's name and something about seals. 

He rounds a corner and senses a _second_ demon. 

An empty storefront looms before him, yellowed newspapers plastered all over the inside of the plate glass windows. 

Both of them are inside. 

He inches his way to the back of the building, pressing against the damp brick wall. Peering around a corner, he finds the back door ajar, its cheap padlock blasted open. The first demon's going on and on about seals and Lilith and changes in plans, but Sam can't quite lock onto the thoughts of the second. They're like the ones the demon in Louis had, all red and tangled, barely readable. 

Sam's heart thuds in his chest. He knows he's got to get in there. But _two_ demons at once? Can he hold both of them?

“Only one way to find out,” he says, creeping through the entry door. 

The two demons are still going at it, the echo of their voices leading him through the back rooms. The first one, a woman, is clearly agitated and she's the one with the red thoughts. The other, a guy, is definitely the alpha, relaying orders. They seem so caught up in their argument that they haven't noticed him yet. 

Cool.

Sam takes deep breaths, struggling to concentrate, to center himself. But he's riddled with adrenaline, nearly ready to jump out of his skin.

Literally aching to wring some intel from the dark sons of bitches. 

He draws the Knife with his left hand and pauses at the doorway leading to the front of the vacant store. 

The demons are still carping at each other like an old married couple.

“I don't understand,” the woman says. “I'm Lilith's, not yours. She should be the one giving the orders.”

“You don't need to understand,” the guy drawls, clearly annoyed. “Just do as you're told.”

“But—”

“You haven't been topside nearly long enough to question. Lilith is attending to far more important matters than relaying orders to the likes of you.”

Sam chances a glimpse around the door frame, just as the male demon backs the female into the wall. 

“I'm sure Lilith's busy,” the woman stutters. “Sure she is. But what you're saying...it's so—”

“Don't question. Don't _think_. Just follow instructions. If that's too bothersome, I can send you back downstairs right now. Alastair will have no problem at all creating an opening in his schedule.”

Even in the dim light, Sam can see the woman's eyes go wide. 

“No, no, that won't be...I'll do it, no problem.”

Sam doesn't wait for the guy to gloat over his underling. He walks into the room, right hand in front of him, palm open. He concentrates on holding both demons in place, keeping them still. He feels them, caresses their energies, grabbing onto them and holding on.

For an instant he thinks he's succeeded.

The male demon senses him first. With a snarl, he jerks his head to glare at Sam, eyes ablaze. 

Red eyes.

The female demon's mouth merely drops open.

Sam attempts to tighten his hold on them, but the force working against him doubles. Then doubles again. His head begins to throb, his fingers tingling as if they're too close to fire. He sees stars as he strains to hold the demons, certain that its Red Eyes doing most of the work.

“You can't hold me,” Red Eyes says through clenched teeth. 

The firepain shoots up Sam's arm and his head feels like it'll shatter at any second. He moves a few steps toward Red Eyes, who's now facing him.

Sam loses his grip bit by bit. He can't hold them. He's not strong enough. He's out of time and options.

He lunges for Red Eyes, taking the demon by surprise. He aims the Knife for the center of the demon's chest, but the thing partially blocks his attack. He feels the blade find home, but it barely penetrates an inch of flesh at most. 

The pain and throbbing in Sam's head ceases instantly.

Red Eyes rips the Knife from his host's chest before throwing back his head and smoking out.

The Knife clatters to the floor and Sam whirls on the female demon, easily holding her in place as Red Eye's host body crumples.

Unlike the demon in Louis, this one doesn't scream. It just stares back at him through a pair of fathomless black eyes. It's calm now, a complete one-eighty from just a few seconds ago. Sam probes through its chaotic jumble of a mind, unable to grab anything other than a few isolated words.

_Seals. Lilith. Rack. Sixty-Six. Plans. Alastair. Lilith. Seals._

He's about to give up when one more thing emerges from the maelstrom:

_Father_

Sam tightens his grip on the demon. “Father? Whose father?”

The demon smiles. “Sorry, but I'm not programmed to respond in that area.”

“So not funny.”

“Go fuck yourself.” The demon laughs. “Now that big brother's gone, that's all you can do, anyway.” It laughs again, clearly pleased with itself.

White hot rage wells up from deep within Sam's gut. “Wrong. I can still fuck _you_.” He harnesses his rage, channels it, clenching his fist and digging his fingernails into his palm.

The demon screams then, visible bolts of pain shooting through its body. 

Sam squeezes still harder, sending the demon into agony. 

It writhes in Sam's grip, limbs shaking, sweat pouring from every pore. 

Sam leans in close. “Fuck you,” he breathes in its ear. A final pull, and the demon smokes out, pooling onto the floor. He watches as it roils around in its death throes, dim flickers of orange and crimson slowly fading until only a pile of ash remains.

The woman slumps down in a jumbled heap. 

Sam lays his fingers on the side of her neck, her pulse steady but weak. 

She'll live.

He collects his Knife, wiping the blade on his t-shirt. 

Sam verifies that the guy's dead. Whether the body was already dead before Sam stabbed it, it was definitely worm food now. No telling how long the demon had been riding him. He checks the body for ID and isn't surprised that he finds none. Maybe the local five-o will figure out who he was.

And there's something definitely off about a red-eyed demon doing anything other than making deals. From what Sam's learned over the years, that's pretty much their sole function. Why one was playing messenger for Lilith puts a new wrinkle on things. 

The woman groans and Sam's about to make the necessary anonymous phone tip when he hears the telltale sound of a safety being flicked. 

“Don't move or I'll blow your head clean off.”

Sam freezes. Shit, it _can't_ be the cops already. Cops are noisy, and there hadn't been any sirens or even lights. Had a cop seen him enter the building? Damn, but he's been sloppy.

“Don't shoot! I was passing by and heard something—”

“Save it. Put your hands up where I can see 'em. Stay on your knees and turn around. Slow. I got a _real_ itchy trigger finger, if ya get my meaning.”

Sam complies, his mind racing. He takes in the guy holding a sawed off on him. 

Stocky build, maybe mid-thirties, flannel shirt, down vest, jeans and cycle boots. Pretty scary looking knife in a sheath on his belt. The butt of what's probably a handgun in a shoulder holster peeks out from under his vest. The guy's wearing three necklaces: a crucifix, a pentagram, and what looks to be a tiny leather pouch the size of a peach pit. Definitely _not_ a cop. 

A Hunter.

“I can explain,” Sam says, knowing how lame it sounds. 

“Shut up!” the hunter says, advancing a few steps. “I don't need to hear none of your cooked up bullshit.”

“Wait, listen, I tracked these two demons here and—”

“And what? I saw what you did, so don't waste your breath.”

Sam's heart jumps into his throat. Just how much did the dude actually see? By the sound of it, way too much. He'd be able to rush the guy if he weren't stuck on his knees. “My name's Sam, and I'm a Hunter, just like you. It's not what you think.”

“Yeah? A Hunter, just like me, huh?” He chuckles as he reaches into his vest with his free hand, extracting a flat, glass bottle. He pulls the cork with his teeth and spits it out. “I didn't fall off the hay wagon yesterday, ya know. I've been huntin' demons for fifteen years, and I've never seen anyone do what you just did.” He nods to the dead guy's body. “You stabbed that one there with some knife and it smoked out.” He jerks his head toward the woman, who's rapidly regaining consciousness. “And that one? You done pulled it out yourself. Somehow. Not before you made it suffer, though.”

“Of course I did it myself,” Sam says, his heart thudding away. “A new method of exorcism I've been working on. I'll share it with you.”

“Somethin' new, huh? That don't need no Devil's Trap or incantation? Sure. And I've got this bridge I can sell you _real_ cheap.” He flicks the bottle, spraying its contents across Sam's face. When nothing happens, he actually steps backward. 

“See? I'm no demon,” Sam splutters, his patience wearing thin. 

“I don't know what the hell you are,” the Hunter says, clearly agitated. “I always try to save the body a demon's been ridin', but since holy water don't work on you, there's always old reliable.” He aims his sawed off at Sam's head. 

“You're making a mistake,” Sam yells, losing control. “I'm human.” He rises to his feet. “We're on the same side.”

The Hunter backs up another step. “I _saw_ you. No human being has red eyes. Say hello to the devil for me, you son of a bitch.”

Sam lunges for the Hunter in a desperate attempt to grab the shotgun, or at least knock it sideways. He barely starts to move when the sawed off flies directly into his right hand. He's stunned, pausing only a half-second.

The Hunter recovers just as fast, drawing his handgun and flicking off its safety in a single, fluid motion.

“No!” Sam yells, lashing out as the handgun sails off into the darkness. The next instant, the Hunter's thrown against the nearest wall, a sickening crack signaling snapping bone. He collapses to the floor, his head at an impossible angle. 

Sam knows he's dead without bothering to check for a pulse. “Fuck!” 

Whipping a rag from his jacket pocket, he goes into overdrive. He wraps the rag around the hilt of the Hunter's knife and removes it from its sheath. He plunges it onto the chest wound of Red Eye's dead host, leaving it there. 

As the woman's moans turn to disjointed mumbles, Sam grabs the Hunter's sawed off and hightails it back to his motel. 

Time to get the hell out of Baraboo.

 

_**May 30, 2008 – Bowling Green, Ohio** _

 

“Another double, neat.”

The muscled bartender nods and struts off to fetch the whiskey. 

Sam watches the kid a minute before swiveling around on his bar stool. 

All university watering holes were the same, and this one was about as generic as they come. Loud jukebox, ratty tables, and a painted concrete floor so sticky you could lose your shoes. The stench of stale beer hangs heavy in the air with just a touch of dope, most likely wafting from the restrooms.

He gathers that he's arrived smack in the middle of exam week, mostly based on overheard snippets of conversations from the kids filling the place. They're either getting smashed to celebrate or moan over finished exams, or getting smashed in anticipation of one. He remembers this atmosphere of quiet desperation coupled with outright hopelessness all too well.

But Sam's not here to reminisce about his own university days. 

Nope, Stanford is far behind him now, a relic of his past. A misstep. A curious error in judgment from a time when he thought he could pass for normal.

He swallows the bit of whiskey left in his glass as the juke revs up some Foreigner. 

It's been a lackluster span of days, and he's no closer to finding Lilith that he was at the get go. He's pulled a handful of demons, but not a single one possessed any useful information that he didn't already have. The same old crap: sixty-six seals, some new plan. There were hundreds of seals, and without a clue as to which sixty-six the demons were talking about, the intel was basically useless. 

Offing a Hunter's done nothing for lifting his spirits either, even though he knows he didn't have a choice. It was self defense, kill or be killed, wasn't it? Just like Gordon. But that damned little voice inside keeps nattering away, telling him that knocking the guy out probably would've worked, too.

“Shut up,” he breathes, lifting his empty glass to his lips.

What's really eating at him is that he got sloppy back in Baraboo. He'd focused entirely on the two demons without taking an few extra minutes to hang out and assess the situation. If he had, he'd have probably noticed the Hunter's truck parked in the alleyway. If he'd just slowed down a little, he might have figured out that someone _else_ was tracking the very same demons. 

It was all elementary shit. Hunting 101. And he'd fucked it up. 

The fact that he's saving people after snapping their demons out of them should be some comfort, but it's not. 

“There ya go.”

The bartender sets down a fresh glass of Jack and Sam slides a ten across the bartop. “Keep it.”

“Thanks,” the guy says, an odd expression on his face. 

Sam takes a deep swallow of the golden liquid, savoring the slow burn that penetrates all the way down into his belly. 

The Baraboo cops had blamed a drug deal gone bad for the mess he'd left behind there. The apparent lack of any illegal substances at the scene didn't seem to be important. 

The woman turned out to be a hairstylist missing from Topeka, Kansas since February. Red Eye's host hadn't been identified yet, but they'd ID'd the Hunter as Jason Tyrell of Saginaw, Michigan. Since he was a Hunter, and therefore unemployed with no apparent means of income, the cops had no problem labeling Tyrell a drug dealer and laying all the blame on him.

There'd been the expected outcry on the Hunter's network, and Sam hoped to hell that he'd covered his tracks well enough. The last thing he needed was for _another_ Hunter to figure out he'd been in Baraboo when he'd killed Tyrell. The chances were slim, but the way his luck's been running lately...

“Here. Looks like you could use it.” The bartender sets the bottle of Jack next to Sam's glass. It's two-thirds empty, but there's more than a few shots left in it. 

“Hey, man, that's cool,” Sam protests.

“Forget it. If you need anything else, well, just let me know.” The bartender pauses a moment, starts to turn away, and leans in toward Sam. “Uh, I'm Randy, by the way.”

“Jeff,” Sam lies, smiling. “Thanks, man.”

“Sure.” Randy saunters off to the other end of the bar to take care of some chunky kid who could barely stand.

Sam's fake smile fades almost instantly. 

He's not bothered by Randy's apparent interest. He's used to being hit on from time to time, mostly women, but a fair number of guys, too. Dean always blamed it on what he referred to as Sam being cursed with “doe eyes syndrome”. 

Whatever. 

It's all so mystifying, the whole sex thing. He'd fooled around with a couple of guys in junior high, the usual experimentation. He'd had one or two girlfriends during his high school years, but never anything serious. Not until Jess. After her murder, hooking up just to get off seemed more of a luxury, a distraction from the job at hand. 

He snorts at his unintentional pun. 

He's always managed to satisfy himself, and if it's only his own right hand, it's better than nothing. 

Once he'd hit the road with Dean though, everything changed. He'd never realized how much he'd blocked off when he'd left home for Stanford. Somehow, he'd managed to brick up that part of himself that needed Dean, that loved him. 

Must've been the focus on his studies, or maybe the freedom from his Dad, or maybe Jess. 

Maybe all of it. 

Back with Dean though, Sam's interior walls came crashing down. He gladly fell into the old, familiar rhythm of Dean. The comforting feel of his brother's confidence, of his determination and loyalty. 

He's not sure when the final switch flipped, when he realized that his love for Dean had crossed the line from brotherly love into...well, love. It'd been so gradual a shift that Sam can't even put a finger on the when. 

And the how? 

That was easy. 

Sam knew exactly what lay beneath the surface of Dean's gruff, carefully crafted macho exterior. Over the years, Sam had snatched glimpses of the real Dean, assembling the disjointed pieces one at a time. And when he'd finally solved the puzzle that was his big brother, he couldn't help but be blown away by it.

It was far more than Dean's attractive outer packaging, too. Sure, he'd seen his brother naked all the time, from way back when they were kids. They _were_ brothers, after all. 

And he'd recognized early on that Dean was pretty damned handsome. He recalls entertaining more than a handful of unsavory thoughts concerning his brother back in junior high. Later on, he'd just attributed it to raging teenage hormones. 

He never really understood the taboo that surrounded guys saying another guy was good looking, either. It didn't make sense, especially since it seemed acceptable for women to engage in the same thing. He'd finally given up on that particular form of self-expression by the time he was twelve, mostly because he grew tired of kicking someone else's ass every time it came up. 

Growing up a freak in a family of Hunters had a few advantages.

He'd been witness to Dean's adult sexual exploits, of course, spending far too many hours banished to the Impala so Dean could bed his latest conquest. He'd known, too, that Dean wasn't above slipping into a gas station restroom for a quick blow job from another guy if time was short and didn't permit a trip to the local dive bar or strip club. 

Did getting blown by another guy make Dean queer? Or just easy?

Fuckin' labels.

Sam _hates_ labels. 

He downs some more Jack as the juke blares Beck's “Nausea”. Kinda fitting, especially considering the sounds emanating from the nearby restroom.

To his mind, people were far too unique, too complex to be summed up in a word or two. 

He really admired the concept that many first nations of the Americas had subscribed to, the notion that there were several genders, and that certain people carried multiple genders at the same time. And they were generally held in high regard by their particular tribes, most often seen as special individuals sent to them by the gods. Definitely cool, not to mention open-minded. These days, it was too frickin' easy to label someone as gay or lesbian or bisexual, to pigeonhole them. 

Dean did that a lot, but Sam knew it was all bluster, over compensation. Dean was all about deflection. 

Sam had his number, though.

If anything, he likes the idea of pansexuality the most. The concept of loving the person inside regardless of the exterior packaging. Sure, he appreciates a good looking body as much as anyone, but for him, it's what's inside that really counts. 

Loving someone based on the beauty of their soul. 

And Dean's soul is a fucking stunner. 

Blinding and beautiful. 

Most folks never bother to get past Dean's alpha male exterior, to dig a little, to pry open a tiny crack and catch a glimpse of the true Dean. Of course Dean works overtime to keep people at a distance, so hardly anyone ever gets close enough to even try. And on those ultra rare occasions when someone manages to get _too_ close for Dean's tastes, he just shoves them away. 

After Dean had made the deal to bring him back, though, all bets had been off. He'd been blindsided by Dean's neediness, the hungry way Dean'd thrown himself at him. Sam hadn't complained, of course, but the intensity of it had definitely been a little unnerving. 

There'd been no words, just Dean holding him, then kissing him, the slow burn igniting like a wild fire between them. That'd been the first time Dean had taken him, but certainly not the last. 

Sam'd been sure of where he was coming from, but Dean never offered a single word of explanation. A final barrier had been busted down, and that was that. They didn't really talk about it. 

They just _were_. 

If...no, _when_...he gets Dean back, he's definitely gonna spill his guts. Say all the things he should of said already. Make sure Dean knows everything.

Sam's lonely enough to _almost_ consider flirting with Randy, but he squashes the notion. He can't afford to let his guard down just to screw around with some young college kid, no matter how horny he is. 

Anything could happen, and the last thing Sam wants is to endanger another innocent life. 

Besides, he's got work to do here, and he needs to get it done and get out.

He sips on his Jack, catching Randy staring at him with a goofy smile plastered on his face.

“Geez.” Sam smiles back again, unable to stop himself. 

Must be the booze. 

He'd come to Bowling Green because he'd noted a pattern surrounding a handful of bizarre deaths. All successful individuals. All odd circumstances. A bit of digging, and Sam found that all three people in question had become remarkably successful ten years earlier, a sure sign of a deal making demon. 

Looking back through city and county death records, he'd uncovered a similar set of deaths every year during the last week of May. Sometimes only one, sometimes three, but all fitting the pattern. 

A red-eyed demon had set up shop in Bowling Green, and Sam was going to summon it. Hopefully to wring some information from it, and just as much to flex his psychic muscles. 

He'd hit the bar intending to have just a drink or two, to lend a bit of credibility to the drunken, depressed and hopeless façade that he'd planned to present to the demon. The more pathetic and broken he appeared, the easier it'd be to get the jump on the thing. 

That'd had been his plan, anyway. 

Now, he was well on the way to getting shitfaced, thanks mostly to Randy's super-sized double shots. 

Sam downs the rest of the Jack and fills his glass again. Of course Randy's staring at him, and Sam returns the gesture before taking a huge swallow. 

“Fuck it.” 

He decides to finish the bottle. 

It'd be rude not to. 

Besides, Randy's got a great smile. 

Not to mention a sweet ass.

_~*~ * ~*~_

Sam nearly falls out of the Impala, finally finding the crossroads after more than a few wrong turns.

He smiles to himself as he grabs his summoning box and a shovel from the Impala's trunk. It's a good thing he'd put the box together earlier in the day, because he's way too wasted to handle such a task now.

He stumbles to the middle of the crossroads, the shovel seeming to have developed a mind of its own. 

As it happened, he'd not only polished off the bottle of Jack, but three more shots, all on the house from Randy. 

Or was it four? 

They'd all had names, but he sure as hell can't remember any of them. He's also sure that he'd made a complete buttface of himself, but Randy didn't seem to mind. 

After the last foofy shot, he'd shambled into the grimy restroom to let out some of the Jack. He'd barely zipped up when the door creaked and a pair of hands snaked their way inside his jacket and under his t-shirt. Randy'd turned him around and backed him into the handicap stall, his tongue invading Sam's mouth, his hand slipping down and inside the back of Sam's jeans. Sam had ripped open Randy's tight Levi's, stroking him off in less than a minute. The next thing Sam knew, the kid was on his knees taking the whole of Sam's erect dick into his mouth. 

Randy certainly knew his way around cock, and it was the best blow job Sam's had in weeks. 

Of course the kid had wanted his number, so Sam had given him one. 

Who knew what the phone number actually went to, but Randy seemed happy with it. 

A win-win scenario. For a change.

Sam finally manges to bury his summoning box and return the shovel to the trunk without tripping over it. He shuffles back to the center of the crossroads, almost forgetting to wipe the smile off his face. 

“Supposed to be depressed,” he mutters, struggling not to laugh out loud.

“All right, where are you?” he roars, hoping to sound pissed off. “C'mon!” 

He whirls around, arms outstretched, feeling a decidedly cool draft wafting through the front of his jeans.

“Oh, shit.” He yanks up his zipper just as a voice calls out from behind him.

“Sammy Winchester. I've gotta tell you, I _almost_ didn't come, especially after how you treated one of my co-workers.”

Sam approaches the demon, who's wearing a guy this time. “Yeah? Well, she ticked me off.”

“Which is why I'm here, Sammy boy.” The demon loosens his tie. “Maybe if the meat's more appealing, you'll be less likely to do something stupid.”

“I wanna deal,” Sam says, face to face with the demon.

“Man, you don't look so good.” The thing leans in, sniffing Sam's breath. “Drowning your sorrows in cheap booze. Understandable, since your entire family's dead and you're all alone.”

Sam reaches out to probe the demon's thoughts. After a few seconds of nothing, he curses himself for getting so sauced. “Cut the crap. I wanna deal. My soul for Dean's.”

“Oh, I don't think so, Sammy.” The demon draws a finger along Sam's jawline. “Not that I wouldn't mind sealing a deal with you.” He shrugs. “But my hands are tied. Dean's deal is unbreakable.”

Sam doesn't really expect a deal; it's all pretense, an excuse to get close to a red-eyed demon. And tonight must be his lucky night.

“Everything's negotiable,” Sam replies, allowing some anger to creep into his voice. Which isn't difficult, as the demon's smug expression is really torquing him off.

“This deal isn't. We've got everything the way we want it. So, if there's nothing else I can do for you...or _to_ you, I'll be off.” He pauses a moment, his eyes drifting down to the hilt of the Knife poking out from the inside of Sam's jacket. “Unless you plan on using that pig sticker on me.”

“No need to dirty the blade,” Sam breathes, reaching out and snagging the demon's energy.

The satisfied expression fades from the demon's features. “Well, well. Look who's been working their mojo.”

“I want to know where Lilith is. I want to know about these sixty-six seals.”

“You're a lot cuter when you're pretending to be drunk, Sam.”

Sam tightens his grip, and the demon shudders. “Talk, or else.”

“Go ahead. Send me back,” it says through clenched teeth.

“Oh, I'm gonna send you a lot farther than that, you fucker.” 

Sam squeezes his fist with all his might, and the demon's screams echo across the empty fields.


	3. Deceptions

_**June 10, 2008 – Monticello, Indiana** _

 

Ruby catches Sam by surprise in Monticello, the cherry on the cake of his worst week in recent memory.

He'd botched a simple haunting in Muncie, underestimated the size of a nest of vamps holed up outside of Findlay, Ohio, nearly getting himself turned. And he'd nearly been nabbed by a nosy Sheriff while following up a blind lead in Morganfield, Kentucky.

His offing of the crossroads demon in Bowling Green had apparently tipped his hand somehow, and the hellspawn are definitely adapting. They're harder to find now, and of those that he _does_ manage to corner, half smoke out before he gets a chance to hold them. The handful that he's been able to hold and interrogate tell him next to nothing, and he's under the definite impression that they're somehow masking their thoughts.

He's snagged a few more scraps of information regarding Lilith's plans for the seals, although not nearly enough to determine her endgame.

On top of all that, Sam's emotional rollercoaster ride seems to intensify by the day. The magnitude between the highs and lows grows wider and wider, his constant struggle to maintain an even keel less and less effective. 

He'd had Dean to rely on for the last few years, and without him, Sam feels only half here, incomplete. So much of their success as Hunters had clearly been because of their ability to work so well together, each of them supplying their personal strengths to create a whole stronger than the sum of their parts.

Sam's missing things, not picking up on subtleties and clues that Dean would have scoped out in an instant. 

The dreams that intersperse themselves amongst his visions aren't helping, either. He dreams of Dean in The Pit, writhing in the flames. Or of a naked, needy Dean beneath his fingertips.

He doesn't know which is harder to handle.

Sam's taken up with his buddies Johnny and Jack again, to blot out the pain, and that's how Ruby had gotten the jump on him. 

He could only imagine what Dean would say about his pathetic sloppiness, about letting himself get so shitfaced that he was cornered in his own hotel room.

He'd been tailspinning when Ruby and her partner had showed up, and couldn't have cared less if she'd killed him or not. 

She didn't though, turning the Knife on her henchman and babbling some crap about outsmarting Lilith and coming back to help him out.

Of course he was too drunk to read her thoughts. 

Another fuck up, but he'd stopped counting 'em weeks ago.

 

_**June 13, 2008 – Dayton, Ohio** _

 

Sam stretches out in the most uncomfortable chair ever, hacking into the neighbor's unsecured wireless connection. All the comforts of home, or at least all that could be afforded by the abandoned house he was squatting in. The state of Dayton's east side made Kankakee look like Beverly Hills. It suits his purposes to avoid motels for awhile, and after two days, no one seems to have noticed or cared he'd taken up residence in the decaying neighborhood. 

He does sorta miss the Vibra-Beds, but all he really needs for now is a mattress and enough electricity to run his laptop. He's got that covered, as the small solar panel liberated from some interstate emergency call box is more than enough to keep the marine battery fully charged. Add a cheap inverter intended for camping, and it's all good.

And green, too. Which makes him laugh, remembering when recycling and renewable energies actually meant something to him. When such stuff seemed important. Important enough to spar with Dean over, anyway.

He's managed to settle himself a bit after the crap in Indiana, although he's still sipping whiskey at ten in the morning. As long as he drinks to dull the pain and not to get totally blotto, he figures he'll be okay.

Ruby had insisted on tagging along when he'd fled the hotel in Monticello, and after less than an hour on the road, he'd been ready to snuff her just to shut her up. His buzz had degenerated into a killer headache by then, and he still couldn't read a single thought in her borrowed head.

He'd finally booted her out of the Impala, leaving her on the side of some two lane blacktop in the middle of by-god Indiana. 

Yesterday, she'd shown up at his front door, bold as brass and wearing a fresh meatsuit. She proudly brandished some hospital bill to prove that her new body was “clean and green” or some such shit. He'd wondered how much trouble it'd been for her to find a young, brain dead patient with perky tits and a tight ass. 

He hadn't fully trusted Ruby when she'd first surfaced over a year ago, but she'd proved helpful at precisely the most necessary moments, and she _had_ offered to die for him and Dean back in Colorado. 

That was before Lilith had sent Ruby downstairs, hijacking her host body back in New Harmony.

Outwardly, Ruby appeared to be the same. A different body, of course, but inside, Sam saw how she was broken into so many pieces that he couldn't figure out how she still functioned.

Even though he didn't want to, he empathized. He felt the same way about himself.

It hadn't taken long to for him to figure out Ruby's game. Seems being just a _bit_ buzzed enhances his abilities, so he'd no trouble sifting through her thoughts as she sat there, droning on about how sorry she was about Dean and how she wanted to do nothing more than help him find and kill Lilith.

He had to hand it to her, though—she played her role well.

The only problem was, could he do the same?

How long could he go along with her crap when he knew the truth? 

Like the fact that Lilith had tortured Ruby downstairs, torn and ripped and flayed her to pieces, only to put her back together and start all over again. Or that Ruby had broken, that she'd begged Lilith for mercy, admitting her transgressions and pledging her eternal allegiance anew?

It was all there, sharp and bright, fresh wounds right on the surface and easy for Sam to see.

Ruby was working for Lilith, nearly every word spewing from her piehole a lie. 

He'd almost ganked her right then and there, but he'd somehow managed to retain a shred of self-control.

Ruby definitely had more information buried in the depths of her twisted demon mind, and Sam needed time to root around, to sort things out.

This was the break he'd been waiting for. 

Ruby'd talked about training him, teaching him everything she knew. As to that, she wasn't lying. 

She'd also mentioned blood. 

How blood would make him stronger. 

More powerful.

Able to defeat Lilith. 

He just had to keep his cool, play along. Pretend to be the wounded little brother, desperate for revenge. 

Sam realizes he's feeling a perverse pleasure at the idea of playing someone instead of being played. Fuck it. It's helping to restore some of his confidence, to rebuild a portion of his crumbled and smashed resolve.

He takes a swallow of Jack straight from the bottle as sharp knocks rattle the front door.

Time for his first lesson.

And his first performance.

 

_**June 20, 2008** _

 

Ruby strings Sam along for over a week before she mentions blood again. She's worked out quite the regimen for him, and it sort of reminds him of the lessons his Dad, and then Dean, used to give him when he was learning about Hunting as a kid.

Every day she shows up with coffee or donuts or subs, all perky and upbeat. 

And fake.

Sam hates to admit a growing admiration for her tenacity. Despite being totally fucked over by Lilith, she's just as dedicated to her present course of action as she'd been a year ago. The real kick in the pants is that she'd been genuinely interested in helping him and Dean out back then.

In the here and now, though, she's working him, deceiving him, and no matter what she's done in the past, he's not going to allow that to sway him. 

No fucking way.

He's gleaned a few more shreds of information from her over the past week, too. 

Again, Sam's amazed at how organized her thoughts are. How controlled she is, focusing completely on whatever task she deems most important at the time. 

Calculating, Precise. He's learning a lot from her in that respect. 

As for Lilith's plans, all that seems to be kept in the darkest recesses of Ruby's mind, and it's difficult for Sam to probe that deeply without it being obvious. So he works at it, little by little, sweating out every trace of intel that he can pull from her.

He's uncovered that Lilith plans to break sixty-six seals. What'll happen if she's successful, Sam has no idea. Seems Lilith has an endgame of her own percolating, and unlike Azazel's plan, he doesn't play a starring role in it. Dean is mixed up in it somehow too, but all he knows is that his brother will have something to do with one of the seals. 

Which one, and exactly how Dean could break a seal while in Hell, remains a mystery.

“Hey, Earth to Sam.”

Sam jerks in his chair, aware that he'd lost himself in thought. “Yeah. I'm listening.”

Ruby pulls a face and folds her arms across her chest. “What'd I just say, then?”

“Uh, something about Lilith,” he guesses. 

“Dude, you've got to pay attention.” She jerks her head to an empty bottle of Scotch. “And lay off the sauce. If you're expecting to kill Lilith, you've _got_ to stay sharp.”

“I know. Sorry. I was just thinking—” He stops himself, swallows hard, and adopts what he hopes to be his most hangdog expression. He even throws in a snuffle for good measure.

“Thinking about Dean, huh?” 

Sam nods and stares at his hands clasped in his lap. 

“Listen, I know how rough this is for you.” Ruby gets up and stands behind him. “It eats me up seeing you like this.” She begins massaging his shoulders. “I remember what it was like to love someone, you know. What it feels like to lose them. So I understand about Dean, I really do.”

"Look, spare me the empathetic bullshit, okay? There's no fucking way you could _ever_ understand." Sam tries to wrench himself from her grasp, but she holds on tightly.

"No, not exactly," she replies, all calm, cool and collected. "But I _do_ know what he meant to you— _means_ to you. You loved him, Sam. More than anything."

"Ruby-," Sam says, horrified at the lumps rising in his throat. God damn it, he had to keep it together. Of course the hellspawn knew about him and Dean; he should have expected this, and prepared for it. 

"It's okay, really. I get how you and Dean are everything to each other. Two halves of the same coin, and you're lost without him. Pretty damn epic, man. I just want to help you get him back."

Sam shifts under her skilled hands, and it feels good, _way_ too good. “I don't wanna talk about it.” He jumps up and paces the room, pretending to stare out of one of the dingy windows. He takes deep breaths in an effort to calm his roiling emotions.

What truly sucks is that he'd _love_ to talk about it—about Dean. _Needs_ to talk about it. But not with her. Not with a lying, skank of a demon.

“You've got to get over this, Sam. If there's any chance at all that we're gonna nuke Lilith, to get Dean back, you've got to man up and get with the program.”

He whirls to face her, genuine anger welling up inside. “I said, I'm not talking about it. Got it?”

She blinks at him as if truly wounded, and for an instant, Sam forgets that he's staring at a dead husk, a demon condo. 

“Fine. I won't bring it up again.”

“Good.” 

Ruby sighs deeply, planting both hands on her hips. “Anyway, I think it's time to step up your game.”

“Okay. Let's do it.”

Ruby'd started him off slow, cornering low level demons and trussing them up beneath Devil's Traps to test and strengthen his powers. Sam'd played along, feigning difficulty with the first few. He'd grown impatient fast, giving in and pulling last night's demon easily. He's been worried that Ruby might have found his speedy progress suspicious, but it seems she's writing it all off as plain old good fortune. 

What a joke.

“You've done really, really well Sam. I'm sure you could keep at it on your own, growing stronger, but there isn't time. Lilith's got her pedal to the metal, and the quicker we get Dean out of The Pit, the better.”

“Okay, great, I get it. Let's go. I'm ready.”

“We'll see,” Ruby says, her brow creasing with apparent worry.

Damn, but she was good. 

“It's really extreme, but it's the only way to pump you up really fast.”

“Blood, right?” Sam says, stepping toward her.

“Yeah.”

Sam whips out the Knife, handing it to her, handle first.

She snorts. “Didn't expect you to be such an eager beaver.”

“Just full of surprises, I guess.”

She nods, taking the Knife and dragging the razor sharp edge across her extended forearm. A thick line of crimson blossoms, and she shudders. “Go ahead. Drink.”

Sam stares a moment before grabbing her slim arm with both hands. He tightens his grip purposely, applying increasing pressure until she groans. 

“Do it, Sam.” 

Sam meets her gaze, her eyes solid black, bottomless and empty.

“For Dean,” she adds, noting his hesitation.

“For Dean,” he repeats, roughly yanking her arm closer to his lips. 

The next instant, he's sucking on Ruby's wound, pulling in her blood as if sucking out a snake's venom. 

Instead of stopping to spit, he keeps going, pushing aside the initial waves of revulsion at what he's doing. 

He suckles and laves at the pulsing wound, swallowing and sucking down more. It's coppery and salty thick, a struggle not to gag. The blood warms its way down his throat, pooling in his belly. The sensation spreads from there, working its way through his entire body. Everything begins to tingle, and for the first time in months, Sam feels whole again. 

Solid. 

Complete.

He keeps at it, drinking more of Ruby's demon blood, feeling more and more relaxed, yet in control. 

Confident. 

Able to take on anything. 

Ruby's saying something, but he doesn't care. He feels the thrum of blood in his veins, the drumbeat of his heart pounding in his chest. 

His ears ring with it, and he wants more. 

_Needs_ more. 

Ruby's trying to pull her arm away, but Sam just tightens his grip. 

That's when she screams, breaking Sam's reverie. 

“Damn it, Sam!” She yanks her arm free, stumbling backward and landing ass-first on the dusty floorboards. She's deathly pale, staring back at him with eyes wide as saucers. 

Sam knows he's grinning like an idiot but doesn't give a shit. He feels great, invincible, even. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, pausing a second to scrutinize the smear of blood there. 

He licks his hand clean as Ruby stands up, steadying herself on one of the chairs.

“Fuck, Sam, when I say stop, you need to stop.”

“Sorry,” Sam lies. “Got carried away.”

“No shit, Dracula.” She holds up the wounded arm and the sliced skin knits itself together. “We're gonna need a goddamn safe word or something.”

“I'll do better next time. Promise.”

“You'll have to. Another minute or two, and I'd been trolling coma wards for another body.”

“Wouldn't want that.” 

Not yet, anyway, Sam muses.

Ruby straightens her t-shirt and hair, taking deep breaths. “Let's see how you do with something a bit more powerful. Say, a crossroads demon?”

“Sounds great.” Sam grabs his keys and follows her to the Impala.

 

_**June 23, 2008** _

 

“I'm ready to take on a yellow-eyed demon,” Sam says nonchalantly, sipping on his Amstel as Ruby nearly chokes on a mouthful of french fries.

“You're _not_ ready,” she replies, barely missing a beat.

“I am. And you're the one who keeps saying we don't have time to waste.” 

“We don't. But we've got to take it easy, Sam. I'm not willing to throw away all the progress we've made. Are you?”

She's stalling. Sam would know it even if he couldn't read her thoughts. 

The sandbagging started right after Sam'd offed two red-eyed demons in as many days. He knows its because he's far stronger than he should be, and Ruby recognizes that. She doesn't suspect that he's been flexing his freaky psychic muscles for months. 

Actually, she's scared. Things aren't going according to plan, and it's definitely freaking her out. 

There's a timetable to Lilith's endgame, and he's not supposed to be acing every little test Ruby sets up for him.

Lilith doesn't have all her ducks in a row yet. Something's holding things up, and it's fallen on Ruby to stall.

“The best thing to do is to keep pushing myself. Going after bigger and bigger game. How many crossroads demons do you want me to nuke before you decide I'm ready to move up the food chain?”

Ruby folds her arms, her lips a thin line. 

Sam's been pushing her hard for the last few days, and she clearly doesn't like his boot up her ass. 

Too bad. 

He needs her to help him track down the upper echelons of hellspawn, as he can't seem to locate them on his own. At least not yet.

Sam's gathered that yellow-eyed demons are pretty rare, and white-eyed demons, like Lilith, are rarer still. Both types tend to be the oldest and most twisted of souls, having shuffled off their mortal coils several hundreds, if not thousands, of years ago. Seriously dark things, with absolutely no memory left of their human lives. 

Things that exist without feeling or emotion, without remorse. 

Pure evil incarnate. 

Sam's itching to use his supercharged powers on them, to wring out any information he can and send them packing.

Aside from helping to restore his confidence, the blood's also sharpened his mind sifting abilities immensely. 

He'd have thought that by now he could easily pluck anything he wanted from Ruby, but the stronger and bolder he becomes, the more Ruby seems to throw up barriers. Sam's pretty sure it's just reflex, a defensive response on her part, a by product of existing as a tortured soul amongst vicious, traitorous kindred for hundreds of years.

“You're not ready,” she repeats finally, twirling a fry in a pool of ketchup. 

It reminds Sam of blood. 

And how he hungers for it now, needs it. Wants it. Not just for the blood itself, but for the power he'll get from it. 

The power and strength he'll need to save Dean.

Ruby says the hunger will subside eventually, but she's vague on the details. She's definitely stringing him out on that front too, as she's only let him feed from her once in the last ten days.

Sam's not sure how much longer he can keep up his false front. It's frustrating him to no end, but killing her now won't get him anywhere. His desire for blood is making him jumpy and impatient, sometimes so much that he feels ready to leap out of his own skin. But Sam's channeling all of that angst toward Ruby, keeping her under constant pressure. 

“Fine. If you won't help, I'll find one myself.” He gulps down the rest of his beer and stands, defying her to stop him. 

“You're fucking serious.”

“Yeah, I'm fucking serious.” Sam watches her intently, and she averts his gaze. 

“Okay, Rambo. It's your party.” She shoves her chair back and crosses to him, her expression grim. “But if things go south, and I give the word, we book, get it?”

“Yeah.” 

“I'm gonna regret this.”

And Sam's absolutely positive that she will.

 

_**June 30, 2008** _

 

“Hey, it's me again. Give me a call. It's important.”

Sam kills his cell, leaving Ruby another voice message. She's not returning his calls or texts, which is fine, because he'd just as soon yank and zap her than stare at her lying face.

He hasn't seen or heard from her for four days, ever since their failed hunt for a yellow-eyed demon.

Sam's positive that she'd totally screwed him on the hunt, doing nothing but dragging his ass through every backwoods shithole in western Kentucky and Tennessee. She'd tacked on an additional day for good measure, wasting more time in southern Illinois and Indiana before finally throwing up her hands and calling it quits.

There just hadn't been any yellow-eyed demons around, she'd said. “They're tricky, Sam. Even I have trouble finding one,” she'd said.

Bullshit. 

More lies. 

He'd caught onto her before they'd even left Ohio, certain that she intended to _avoid_ their prey rather than actually find it. She'd tried to give up almost immediately, which came as no surprise. But he'd stuck to his guns, insisting that they keep at it.

Which they did for three long days, Ruby bitching and moaning the entire fucking time. 

The wild goose chase hadn't been a total loss, though. Sam noted a definite pattern to the wide, vaguely circular route that Ruby charted for them, as if there was something at the center of the circle that she didn't want him to find. 

He'd probed her relentlessly, using her agitated state to his advantage. 

He'd been right: she'd known _exactly_ where a yellow had been holed up. Dillsboro, Indiana, smack in the middle of their circle.

So he'd headed straight for the place, despite Ruby's protests. 

He'd been able to finally sense the thing, to lock onto its demonic signature and etch the pattern into his brain for future reference. Once he'd had it down, he'd backed off and let Ruby direct them away from Dillsboro again.

He'd kept at her all the way back to his flop house, able to pull out a few more important tidbits before Ruby had reestablished her mental disciplines. 

Somehow, Dean would smash the first of the sixty-six seals. His brother was key to this end, and Sam also knew that Dean hadn't done it yet. Dean hadn't broken, hadn't succumbed to whatever they were doing to him in order to enable him to down that first seal. He'd gotten a bit more too, disjointed snippets concerning angels, some convent somewhere, and more about a “father”. 

More puzzle pieces, every new one adding to the whole and helping to clarify the true scope of Lilith's endgame.

Ruby'd bolted as soon as they'd made it back to Dayton, and Sam was more than grateful to see her go. He'd been itching to integrate the new intel and settle down with his laptop for some heavy duty research. 

And he's uncovered plenty.

He's intensified his searches, grouping the keywords in various new sequences. He hit the jackpot with the combination _angels, seals, father_ , leading him to a set of tenth century manuscripts recently added to some Russian museum's on-line collection.

After translation, the manuscripts describe how the “father of all evil” could be liberated from exile by the breaking of sixty-six seals, a tiny percentage of the hundreds of seals in all of Creation. Such a feat was highly discounted and seen as virtually impossible, as the seals were guarded by the “armies of the heavenly host”.

The cracking of the first seal entailed special handling, which the text referred to as requiring a “righteous and just soul” performing an act of “pure evil”.

The manuscript didn't detail which seals out of the hundreds were to be broken, but it did specify that the final seal could only be broken by the oldest and “most tortured of souls”. 

An incredible find, yet one from which Sam drew little, if any, comfort from. Lilith's plans were now much clearer, if not totally transparent.

Dean was the righteous soul. Lilith was working to somehow twist Dean into performing some horrible act, thus opening the first seal. She probably intended to break the last seal herself—which fit, as she was certainly one twisted bitch.

And the father of all evil? Another no brainer. Lilith intended to raise the Devil, to release him from Hell.

Armageddon was her endgame. The freakin' Apocalypse. Setting Lucifer free to walk the Earth.

Dean's role was now pretty clear, but Sam still hadn't much to go on as to what part he would play in the festivities. 

The next step was crystal, though. Find a yellow-eyed demon. Test his powers. Hold it, interrogate it and pull it. 

And if possible, sample its blood. 

He's got a little prep work beforehand, though. 

Sam tries Ruby's cell again, and it flips directly over to voice mail.

“Call me, Ruby. I think I've got it all figured out.”

He hopes that'll pique her interest enough to get her to show her face, as their collaboration has definitely reached the end of the road.

Sam takes a long swallow of Jack and douses the camping lantern. He sits there for a long time in the dark, savoring the quiet, enjoying the silence in his mind that now comes only when Ruby's not around. 

He relaxes, focusing on the sound of leaves rustling in the cool night breeze. 

The house is silent, dead, entirely his. 

He stretches out with his mind, scanning the ether for that elusive, new thing that he'd touched on during the road trip.

He searches in ever widening circles, passing over the signatures of dozens of black-eyed demons. He finds several reds, too, but not the signature he's looking for. He's reaching the limits of his abilities, but he pushes himself, straining to see just a little bit further. 

He's about to reel himself back in when he nearly blows right by it.

It's vague, but Sam swings the full force of his powers on it.

He zeroes in, and like tuning a radio, he finally locks onto the thing's signature, its demonic scent.

It's powerful, more powerful than he'd imagined it might be. It thrums with energy, pulses with it, a swirling mass of darkness shot through with vivid slashes of yellows and golds.

Shockingly beautiful in a darkly twisted way.

He circles it as closely as he dares, for fear that it might somehow be able to sense him.

After several minutes with no apparent change, Sam takes a chance and reaches directly into the center of the thing, hoping to tap into its thoughts. 

Nothing much happens at first, and Sam can't pick out anything intelligible. 

He pokes a little deeper, and then a tad deeper still, but is unable to sense a thing. He can't read its swirling express train mind, so he tries to pull back, momentarily puzzled when he can't. He doubles his efforts, but rather than pulling away he feels himself dragged closer into the roiling cloud of demonthought. 

Sam panics then, marshaling the whole of his energies to rip away. Instead, he falls headlong into the thing, spiraling out of control, flung around in the maelstrom like a rag doll. He struggles to focus on his flop house, the room, the chair...his body...in a desperate attempt to free himself.

He's spun faster and faster until something snaps, and like a slingshot, he crashes back into his body.

Sam opens his eyes and he's sprawled on the floor, his head pounding and the room spinning. He curls into a tight ball, gasping for breath until the house finally comes to a stop. 

Sometime later, he sits up, feeling like ten miles of bad road. 

He rights his chair and clambers into it, his head clearing steadily.

“Gotcha,” Sam says to the dark room, reaching for his bottle and a celebratory shot of whiskey.

 

_**July 2, 2008 – Hurricane, West Virginia** _

 

Sam locks the door to his room, heading down the hall toward the stairs and parking lot. 

He _hates_ holing up in chain motels, but despite its somewhat picturesque moniker, Hurricane had been totally invaded by corporate America. The fact that I-64 literally cut the town in half probably has something to do with it, but Sam's still annoyed that a Super 8 is the least offensive of the lodging alternatives available to him.

The place didn't even have a bar, let alone Vibra-Beds. Dean would be totally pissed.

He points the Impala north on County Road 19 as the sun dips below the treeline on his right.

His quarry hasn't moved since he'd left Dayton, for the most part holding its position ever since he'd locked onto it two days ago. Sam's not entirely certain if it's the same demon that'd thrown him for a loop, but it's clearly a yellow. The thing's signature is nearly identical as far as he can tell, but it's not as if he's an expert, either.

He's close now, _really_ close, and the yellow's energy is so palpable that Sam imagines that he can feel it on his skin, like static electricity.

He passes a McDonald's and a Pizza Hut, and shortly after that traffic thins out considerably, the trappings of suburbia subsiding as the road narrows and winds through stands of pine with the occasional house set far back from the roadway.

Ruby hadn't responded to his bait, not so much as a text message. Sam wonders if he'll ever see her again. If he's successful tonight, the chances are good. If not, well, its all academic, then. He sure as hell hopes to cross paths with her at least one more time, as he's got a score to settle with the bitch.

The midsummer evening is totally awesome, perfectly temperate with just the right amount of breeze to keep things comfortable. Sam's rolled all the Impala's windows down, and he flicks on the headlights as the gloaming slips into twilight. 

He wishes he could just keep on driving, enjoying the fresh air and the tunes, following the road and seeing where it leads. 

He imagines Dean riding shotgun, covertly sipping from a beer that he's stashed between his legs.

Sam can _almost_ see his brother sitting there, almost smell Dean's aftershave whipping around the Impala's interior...

A diesel pick-up barreling in the opposite direction snaps Sam back to reality as the Impala's radio starts to fritz out, static overwhelming Bad Company's “Ready For Love”.

The radio blares fuzz for a few seconds longer before Bad Company returns full force. 

Sam whips the Impala into the next driveway, turning around and heading back the way he'd come. Bad Company fades out again, and Sam cruises to a stop at the head of a narrow drive that disappears into a thick stand of trees. He can barely make out a pinpoint of light some distance back from the road, obviously from a house.

He extends himself the slightest bit, confirming that he's arrived at his destination.

Sam guides the Impala into the drive, noting the name on the battered mailbox: Campbell. He kills the headlights, slowly moving about a hundred yards before coming to a halt. He flicks off the ignition and waits in the darkness, the ticking of the Impala's cooling engine an odd counterpoint to the gentle summer wind wafting through the densely packed trees.

He's not sure how long he sits there, probing, listening, preparing.

The thing's just ahead.

A yellow-eyed demon in all its glory.

It's full-on dark as Sam gets out of the car as quietly as he can, hoping that he hasn't been sensed. There's no indication that he has been, but once more, he's totally on his own, way out in the rough. Sweat trickles down the center of his back, and Sam unbuttons and shrugs out of his shirt, tossing it into the back seat.

The air feels good on his sweat-slicked skin, and he lifts the hem of his tank top to allow more air to cool him down. His heart pounds in his chest, and the realization hits that he's nervous. 

“C'mon, man, calm down,” he mutters to himself. 

He pauses a few moments, some deep breathing seeming to do the trick. He's as ready as he's ever going to be. 

He's done his research, memorized incantations, practiced his holding powers. 

He'd scoured the east end of Dayton, trapping and pulling every demon he could find. Not only that, but draining them all, too. Five of them. He'd sucked down so much blood that he'd made himself sick, bloated and nauseous for hours after each feeding. 

He'd managed to save the first three hosts. The last two, well, they hadn't been so lucky.

But it'd been worth it, as he now felt more powerful than ever, ready to tackle whatever lay ahead.

He reaches out one last time, confirming that a seriously powerful demon is close by.

Sam makes his way along the winding drive, finally reaching the point where it opens into a large clearing. He's vaguely surprised to find a modest split-level house in the center of it all, complete with a two-car garage and a huge Toyota SUV squatting on the concrete driveway pad. 

A gas lantern marks the boundary of the concrete drive, clearly the light source Sam had seen from the road.

All of the house's windows are dark, so he circles around the side of it, the chirrup of crickets more than covering the soft crunch of gravel beneath his boots. Rounding the rear corner of the garage, Sam picks up on some music playing softly. 

Something from the forties, big band stuff, maybe.

A large deck spans the rear of the house, attached to the top level.

The music is more clear now, and Sam can hear something else, the definite sounds of someone whistling along with the tune. Whomever it is, they're up on the deck.

He slides along the rear wall of the garage, moving closer to the deck. The whistler is almost directly over his head now, clearly enjoying himself.

Sam sniffs the air, the far too enticing aroma of grilling meat riding on the warm breeze.

He takes another step toward the deck when a battery of outdoor flood lights snap on. He's momentarily blinded, instinctively throwing his arm across his eyes.

“For Christ's sakes, Sam. Ever hear of ringing the doorbell? You coulda broken your neck creeping around down there in the dark.”

Sam looks up, blinking furiously to adjust to the near daylight thrown by the floods. He can make out the silhouette of someone peering down at him. 

Someone waving a spatula as if it were a weapon. 

“Get on up here. I'm good, but even I can't keep these burgers medium rare forever. The steps are just around the corner to your right. And don't break you neck on that pair of gnomes.”

Sam blinks some more, totally confused. Whomever it was, they sounded a lot like Joe Pesci from “My Cousin Vinny”. Not exactly threatening, but not completely benign, either. He steps carefully, finding the indicated gnomes flanking the base of the stairs leading up to the deck. 

Sam reaches the top step and finds a short bald guy wearing a gaudy Hawaiian print shirt and khaki shorts tending a gigantic gas grill. The guy's back's to him, and Sam notes that he's swaying his hips in time with the music. The guy waves his left hand and the floodlights go out, the only illumination now being thrown by a half dozen tiki torches spaced around the perimeter of the deck.

“There's cold beer in the cooler by the sliding doors. Help yourself,” he says without turning around.

Sam draws himself up, slowly pulling the Knife from the holster on his left hip. 

The guy snorts. “Oh, c'mon, Sam. I went to all this trouble just for you. Don't screw it up by waving that thing around.”

Sam advances a few steps. “What the fuck's going on here?”

The guy flicks off all the grill's burners and sets his spatula down. He grabs a half-empty bottle of beer and turns around, taking a huge swallow of the liquid.

“Ain't it obvious, Poindexter?” He smiles, his eyes going yellow. “I'm waiting for you.”


	4. Endgames People Play

_**Hurricane, West Virginia** _

 

The demon stands there, sipping on his beer. After a minute, its eyes return to normal. “Yo, anybody home?” He wriggles the fingers of his free hand. “Wow. Tough room. So now what?” 

“That's up to you,” Sam growls, throwing up his hand and latching onto the thing's energy. It's strong, _really_ strong, but he's got it, holding it relatively easily, at least for now.

The demon shudders, its smile fading as it pushes against Sam for a few moments before offering a noncommittal snort. “Not bad, Sammy boy. You've been busy.”

“I said, what's going on and who the hell are you?” 

“If the burgers are overdone, it's all your fault.”

“I'm not in the mood to fuck around.” Sam makes a fist and the demon winces.

“Yeah, fine, skip right on ahead to the point where you torture me for information. But then maybe that's how you get off these days, huh, Sam? Flexing those freaky psychic muscles of yours? Squashing the crap out of demons? Nice. Oh, and we can't forget about drinking blood. I'm sure Dean would be proud of you, especially how you sucked those last two so dry you killed their hosts.”

“How do you know...what do you want?” Sam replies through clenched teeth. 

“Let me go, and I'll tell you,” the demon says as though speaking to a two-year old. “You came looking for me, remember?”

“I'm supposed to trust you?”

“You're holding all the cards, Sam. You have questions, I have answers. Sometimes all you have to do is ask.”

Sam's brain whirls, attempting to take it all in. He can't sense another demon for miles. If it _had_ been some kind of trap, he'd probably know about it by now. 

The demon sighs and rolls its eyes.

Sam reaches out to read the thing's mind, and can only snag one blazingly clear thought: _Hope you like your burgers well-done._ He releases the demon and holsters the Knife. “Okay, now talk.”

“Finally.” The demon drains his beer, dumping the empty in a recycling bin. He fishes two fresh bottles from the cooler, tossing one to Sam. “Name's Bishop. Now get over here and grab some grub. I know you haven't eaten since lunch. One shouldn't live on demon blood alone.” He indicates a small table next to the grill. “Buns and extras are right there. Help yourself.”

Sam watches as Bishop assembles a burger, then pops the cap on his beer, a Dos Equis, taking a hearty swallow. 

“One of your favorite brands, innit?” Bishop moves past him and takes a seat at the large glass topped patio table at the middle of the deck. He ignites a cluster of candles at the center of the table with a wave of his hand and immediately begins to devour his burger.

“Man, this is too fuckin' weird.”

“Tell me about it,” Bishop replies around a mouthful. “The whole planet's takin' a header. And fast.”

“So I'm guessing that you knew I was coming.”

Bishop taps at his temple. “I'm like you, Sam. A reader, telepath, whatever you wanna call it. I'm the one you tangled with in Dillsboro. After that, I kept tabs on you, and finally led you here.”

“You led me here, even though you knew—”

“Yeah, yeah, even though you wanted to interrogate me, suck down some blood and then send me off to Oblivion. Got all that in the first ten seconds of poking around inside that giant skull of yours.”

“So you know what's up, why I'm here.”

“Yup.”

“And what, you're saying you're willing to help me out? Tell me what I need to know?”

“Yup.”

“What's in it for you then?”

“Sam, do me a favor, huh? Get something to eat and sit your ass down. I'm getting a serious fucking kink in this neck from staring up all the time.”

Sam complies, loading up a plate with two burgers and taking a seat across from Bishop, who merely watches while Sam makes short work of his food. Even though they were almost well-done, the burgers were pretty damn tasty. Better than any fast food, anyway. He sips his Dos Equis, Bishop watching him intently the entire time. 

“So, this place.” he nods to Bishop. “That body. One of your deals?”

“Nah. A retired bank exec from Pittsburgh. Wife croaked a few years ago, and he kicked the day before yesterday. Massive heart attack. So I jumped in as he fizzled out.”

“Not exactly the best, um, host to inhabit, though.”

“I've had worse. Not every meatsuit is as nice as yours, ya know. But Harold here suits my needs. Not a prime host, but his spread here is perfect. Decent set-up, secluded, and no other demons for miles. Great place for some suds and a little chat.”

“Tell me what you want. What your price is for this info you want to share.”

“Straight to the point. Okay, fine. It's simple, really. I tell you what I know, and you let me live. Well, so to speak.”

“That's it?”

“Yup. That's it.” Bishop downs the rest of his beer and frowns. “Damn. Harold definitely fried his taste buds with all the smoking.” He gets up to fetch more beer. “The truth is, I'm happy with the status quo. I like things the way they are.” He sits again, sliding a beer across the table toward Sam. “And I'm not alone, either. Not every demon has delusions of grandeur, ya know.”

“Like Lilith.”

“A total, fucking bitch. Insufferable. Thinks her shit don't stink. And she's definitely out of control. She's been brainwashing every newbie and weak-willed demon she can find, swaying or threatening them to come around to her side. The ones that don't? Curtains.”

“So you don't think that kick-starting the Apocalypse is a grand plan?”

“No way. Hell on Earth? What'd be the point? Can you imagine how boring an eternity like that would be?”

“Can't say I've really thought about it like that,” Sam admits.

“Well, trust me, it'd suck. And there's a lot more just like me. We're organizing ourselves against her, but it's slow work, and we've gotta constantly watch our backs. Her lackeys are _everywhere_. And we lose some of our resistance forces to Hunters like you. Attrition bites.”

Sam turns that bit of information over in his head. “I can't say I've found many other hellspawn as willing to talk as you seem to be.”

“Yeah. We prefer the term “demon”, if you don't mind. Hellspawn is, well, archaic. Plus sort of offensive.”

“Cut me a break,” Sam snorts, downing some beer.

“No need to be racist. Let's keep it civil, okay?”

“Whatever,” Sam replies. “And Ruby? Was she part of this resistance of yours?”

“Ruby.” Bishop swirls around his bottle, watching the golden liquid for a minute. “Yeah, she was on our side right from the very start. Dedicated. Fearless.”

“And now?”

The demon looks up, his gaze locking onto Sam's. “You already know the answer to that one. Lilith did a _serious_ number on Ruby. Brutal, even for a demon. The Ruby that I knew, the one that tried to help you last year...she's gone, destroyed. It was a huge hit to lose her. Almost worse than losing Azazel.”

“You _knew_ him?”

“Yup. And believe it or not, he hated Lilith's guts as much as anyone else. Too much of a loner, though. Not to mention just a bit full of himself.”

Sam shakes his head. “Whoa, hold up a sec. Are you saying he was working against Lilith too? That he infected all those kids...me...as a way to keep her in check?”

“Something like that. Sam, this thing's been percolating for centuries. Azazel and Lilith used to be tighter than conjoined twins, but they had a serious falling out decades ago. Azazel went his way, and Lilith went hers. The resistance has been seriously compromised ever since Dean took him out.”

“The fucker burned my mother alive,” Sam seethes. “He deserved it.”

Bishop holds up his hands. “Hey, I get it. He certainly wasn't good at winning over hearts and minds, and he pulled some nasty shit. His endgame to knock Lilith down a few notches might have actually worked if he'd been able to play it out. He was great at planning, but execution? Not so much.”

“Okay, so let's talk seals. Lilith intends to break sixty-six of 'em, at which point Lucifer's released from The Pit.”

“Yup. Aside from the first and last seals, the remaining sixty-four can be any that she chooses. And she'll handle the last one herself.”

“There's something about a convent, maybe.”

“Dunno. Could be the last seal is in a convent. No way to know for sure. You'll have to work that one out for yourself. The other problem with Azazel was that he was way too paranoid. He didn't share the bulk of his plans with anyone.”

“So taking out Lilith is still a priority.”

“Definitely. And there's no one better suited to do that than you.”

Sam still can't wrap his head around how he's the only option available to defeat Lilith. It just doesn't seem to add up. “If there are so many other demons that feel like you do, can't you all just, I dunno, get together and take her on, all of you at once?”

“Been tried. More times than I can count. Like I said, she's got so many followers running around, it's virtually impossible to get the jump on her. And if you haven't guessed already, demons tend to be really rotten when it comes to working together. We're not built for it, ya know? ” Bishop leans forward, pointing his empty bottle to Sam. “Which is where you come in.”

“Because I'm a freak, right?”

Bishop shrugs. “Call it whatever you want. The simple fact is that you're special, Sam. Unique in all of Creation, as far as I know. Your potential is almost unlimited.”

Sam squirms in his chair, his stomach beginning to twist itself into knots. This is _so_ not what he wants to hear.

“Sorry if you don't like the sound of it,” Bishop continues, “but it's the truth. Hate Azazel all you want, but because of him, because of what he did to you, you've got the power to put a stop to Lilith, once and for all.”

Sam jumps up and paces the deck. “And all I've got to do is go dark side, right? Turn myself into something just as bad as what I'm trying to kill.” He hears the sound of a chair sliding across the decking.

“I'm not tryin' to blow sunshine up your ass, Sam. I'm tryin' to help by giving you the facts as I see 'em. You've gotta cut the drama and the self-pity crap right now. You've gotta put a cap on that anger eating away at you, to channel and control it. If you don't, then you've left open the quickest, easiest path to becoming exactly what you're afraid of becoming.”

Sam whirls around, throwing his arms wide. “Fine. So let's assume I manage to off Lilith. What's to stop some other demon from taking her place?”

“Nothing. But that's not my point.”

“Well, Yoda, how about telling me what the point is then?”

Bishop nods slightly. “Okay. If destroying Lilith and saving the world from Armageddon aren't motivational enough for you, how does saving your brother from Hell sound?”

“Of course I'm getting Dean back. Once I kill Lilith, her contract on him is dust, and he'll be free.”

Bishop shakes his head. “Uh, not exactly. If I understand correctly, you want Dean back as he was. Living and breathing in his own restored meatsuit, right?”

“Well, yeah. Lilith can restore Dean, can't she?”

“Sure she can. But she won't.”

“You don't know that.”

“I've been around the block more than a few times. I've got feelers out downstairs, not to mention the rest of the resistance keeping an eye on things. So when I say she'll never do it, it's the truth. Look, Lilith's the oldest demon there is. The very first, twisted into existence by Lucifer himself. Dean's contract is the stuff of legend downstairs. It's unbreakable.”

“So you're saying that I can't get Dean back? That I've got to leave him to rot down there?”

“Hang on, slow down. Let me finish, okay? Whether or not Dean's contract can be broken is irrelevant. He's in The Pit because Lilith needs him there.”

“He's the righteous soul that'll somehow open the first seal.”

“Bright boy.”

“But Dean would never knowingly do _anything_ to bring on the Apocalypse.”

“Not the Dean that you knew, no. Your brother's been downstairs for what, two months?”

Sam nods.

“Time has no meaning down there, Sam. For Dean, it's already been like twenty years.”

Bishop's words sear themselves into Sam's brain. The thought of Dean in Hell for two months was horrible enough, but this? Twenty years in The Pit? It's unimaginable.

“And Dean's not in gen-pop, either. From the instant Lilith's Hellhounds sent him down, he's been on the rack, receiving the full attentions of Hell's own version of a chief inquisitor, a demon named Alastair.”

Sam's heard that name before, back in Baraboo. “They're torturing him,” is all he can think to say.

“Worse. There's no way I can really explain what's happening to your brother. Alastair's taking him apart, piece by piece, slicing and cutting and chopping until there's nothing left, then putting him back together and starting all over again.”

“To break him. To get him to open that first seal.”

“In a way. Of course they're not telling Dean any of this. He's totally oblivious to how he's being used. The first seal will be broken when Dean agrees to step off the rack and mutilate his first soul. And he won't even know what he's done.”

“He won't,” Sam protests. “No way. He'll hold out.”

“He can't hold out forever, Sam. What Alastair's doing to him...like I said, there aren't words.”

Sam's throat goes dry. He backs up, bumping into the deck rail. “What am I gonna do?”

“Time's running out. Dean's in Hell for eternity, and the _only_ way he'll ever get out is if _you_ get him out yourself. Before he breaks and steps off that rack.”

Sam's mind reels. “That's crazy. There's no way I could ever get him out myself. It's impossible.”

“Sam, Sam, Sam. You've got to open yourself to _every_ possibility.” Bishop sets his empty bottle down on the table and folds his arms across his chest. The next instant, he disappears.

Sam blinks, stepping to where Bishop had just been standing.

“And if you take that leap of faith, there's nothing you can't do.”

Sam slowly turns around to find Bishop smirking back at him. “You just went—”

Bishop nods. “To Hell and back. The oldest trick in the book. Not exactly easy or pleasant, but possible.”

“And I can learn how to do that?”

“Don't see why not. There's some differences between us, obviously, but I'm sure you'll have no problem working through 'em. I'm pretty sure you're not gonna take that sweet meatsuit of yours downstairs, and I just don't have the mojo to be of any help there. You've definitely got the potential, though. It's all up to you.”

“Are you sure it's the only way to save Dean?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“I still don't get why you even give a shit.”

Bishop shrugs. “Hey, demon here. Just lookin' out for myself, really. I tell you everything I know and I get to keep on keepin' on. You save your brother and rub out Lilith. Everybody wins.”

Sam considers Bishop's offer. The concept of actually going to Hell to rescue Dean does seem initially ludicrous, but theoretically, it was possible if even a _tiny_ shred of the information concerning astral projection is true. What did he have to lose? On a hunch, he reaches outward to touch Bishop's mind. Unlike before, the demon's thoughts are calm, almost glacial. Sam has no problem navigating them, and it barely takes him five seconds to determine that Bishop's intentions are genuine, if more than a _little_ self-serving.

Bishop snorts, obviously amused at Sam's probing. “See? Told ya I'm on the level. You're gonna need to learn how to cloud your own thoughts, plus a few other tricks. And whatever we do, we've only got a few days to do it before Lilith's goons discover us and the entire place is crawling with demons.”

“All right. So where do we start?”

“We've got a deal, then?”

“Yeah."

“Great.” Bishop crosses the deck and presses against Sam. He tilts his head up, his eyes gone yellow.

“Ahh, what the fuck?”

“We've got to seal the deal, big guy.”

“You mean—”

“Yup. Lay it on me, baby,” Bishop says, closing his eyes and puckering up.

 

_**July 13, 2008 – Dayton, Ohio** _

 

Sam's cell phone beeps, and he checks the screen. He scrolls through the text message, marks his place in the book he's reading, and sets the tome down on the table. 

He paces the first floor of his trusty flop house, glancing at his watch the whole time. He shouldn't be nervous at all. He's planned out exactly what he's going to do, and there's little doubt he'll have any trouble doing it. 

It's time, and it can't be any simpler than that.

Another ten minutes, and it'll be done.

He centers himself, concentrating on relaxing his body while ordering his mind. He raises his mental barriers, whipping up an impenetrable wall around himself. 

Occluding his thoughts from others had been the first new skill he'd mastered. He'd also tightened up his mind sifting abilities, finally managing to break through Bishop's considerable mental defenses. 

Sam'd spent hours probing the demon's mind, collecting vast amounts of information concerning Lilith in particular and demonkind in general. One of the basic tenets of Hunting involved getting to know the enemy, their habits and patterns, and Sam now had that intel in spades. Bishop's memories had helped Sam assemble an extensive profile on Lilith, giving him much needed insight into her deformed psyche. 

One of the last things Sam'd picked up had been how to find other yellow-eyed demons without fail. He'd been amazed at how blind he'd been before, how he'd refused to see what'd been right in front of him. He'd opened himself up, and just like Bishop had indicated, the possibilities suddenly appeared endless. 

Tracking down Lilith remained something that he hadn't quite mastered yet, but he felt close to a breakthrough.

As to the blood, he'd even managed to control his hunger for it, to reduce his near constant need to a mere pang that surfaced only rarely. 

He also had Bishop to thank for that. As the final part of their deal to be consummated, the demon had offered his blood to Sam as a sort of a parting gift. The effect of that blood had been profound, stupefying and overwhelming all at once. He'd passed out from the sheer magnitude of the experience, waking up an hour later, sprawled on the living room floor of Harold Campbell's split-level. 

Bishop had vacated Harold's body by then, smoking out to who knew where. 

He'd had to leave Hurricane in a hurry after that, as he'd sensed a host of demon signatures closing in.

Despite all of the recent successes, one thing hangs heavy over Sam, casting a pall over everything he's accomplished.

The image of Dean's soul being maimed and mutilated haunts him, at times distracting him so completely that he can't think straight. The fact that every passing day translates into another one hundred thirty odd days that Dean has to endure the rack at Alastair's hands alternately spurs his progress or brings it to a grinding halt.

He hasn't yet found some middle ground between the two extremes, and only his anger seems able to snap him out of his deepest bouts of depression. His rage easily buoys him, the idea of exacting his revenge upon Lilith and Alastair perversely satisfying. 

Sam's had no luck figuring out exactly how he'll get to Dean in The Pit. 

He understands the process on an empirical level, easily grasping how disembodied souls accomplish the feat and pass through the membrane separating the living and the dead. 

The solution is there, somewhere, and he needs to find it, fast.

Sam peers out between a gap in one of the boarded up windows. 

A vintage yellow Mustang pulls into the drive and Sam takes a seat at the table, pouring some Jack into a shot glass. He opens his book as the front door opens and closes, footfalls echoing through the house.

“Long time no see.”

Sam looks over the top of his book. “Hey, Ruby. I was beginning to think I'd never see you again.”

“I've been trying to tail Lilith.”

“Yeah?” Sam probes her. Of course she's lying. She's been with Lilith nearly the entire time. “So?”

Ruby shrugs and sits in the chair next to him. “No joy. Couldn't get close enough without tipping her off.”

“I left you a buttload of messages.” Sam stares at her, watching as she forces an indignant expression onto her host's face. 

“Hey, I was concentrating on not getting caught, so sorry if I didn't have time to pick up the phone.”

“Okay, sure. Did you manage to uncover anything else?”

“Not much. Lilith's got everyone so worked up, they're not talking.”

“That sucks.” 

“Are you okay?” Ruby gets up and leans on the tabletop, her leg brushing against his thigh.

“Fine. A little stressed, maybe.” He snaps his book closed and drops it on the tabletop.

“Look, I'm really sorry time got away from me. I shoulda called, at least once.” She moves her leg against his. “But I _do_ have something that might lift your spirits.”

“Oh?” 

“Yeah,” she says silkily. “Actually, two things. One, I know where a yellow-eyed demon's holed up. Cottonwood, Idaho.”

“Idaho, huh? Take us awhile to get there.” 

“Maybe, but the intel's solid on this one.”

“Okay. Sounds great. At this point, I'm desperate enough to drive to Nome if we have to.” Of course it'll take some time to get all the way to bumfuck Idaho. And once they get there, more wasted time searching, eventually coming up empty. Still more time wasted slogging all the way back to Ohio. 

It's all clear in Ruby's mind. More stalling. Desperate stalling. The only good thing Sam gets out of it is that Dean's holding his own, apparently showing no sign of giving in. 

“So, what's the other thing?”

“Well, I'm guessing that you're pretty thirsty by now.” She picks up the poured shot and downs it. “And not for whiskey, either.”

Sam watches as she takes off her jacket and carefully places it over the back of a chair. She draws a small knife from her boot and straddles Sam's lap, rolling her shoulders and pushing her breasts into his face. She trails the fingers of her free hand through his tangled bangs and down his cheek.

“Yeah, you're definitely thirsty for something better. And I've got just the thing.”

She leans in, brushing her lips to Sam's. She draws the knife across her upturned forearm and breaks the kiss.

“Go on, Sam. Do it,” she breathes, nodding to the line of blood welling up on her arm. 

Her breath is warm and sickly sweet on his face. “Thought you'd never ask,” Sam replies.

The table skids away across the floor. 

Ruby lifts up and sails across the room, slamming into the wall and kicking up a billowing cloud of dust. Her impact loosens large chunks of plaster which crash down from the wall and nearby ceiling.

“What the fuck!” she screams, blood trickling from the corners of her mouth. “Are you fucking crazy?” She strains against Sam's hold on her, but it's useless.

Sam brushes plaster dust from his jeans and stands up. He walks over to her, staring into her eyes, deep pools of pure obsidian. “Game's up, Ruby. You can cut the crap. I've been onto you for awhile now.”

“I don't know what's going on, but—”

Sam closes the fingers of his right hand together, cutting her off. Her eyes bulge in their sockets, and she gags, hacking up blood and spittle. Sam relaxes his hand, stepping closer. “It's over. I _know_ everything.” He taps his temple. “Freak Boy's finally got his game on. That _is_ what you call me behind my back, isn't it?”

“Sam, you don't understand. I don't have a choice. Lilith's on my ass twenty four seven. She's got moles everywhere, tracking me, watching me. One wrong move, and I'm dead meat. You can't imagine what she's capable of. What she did to me downstairs. I...I was just stringing her along, waiting for you to get powerful enough and then—”

“And then what? You'd come clean with me and we'd take on Lilith together?”

“Yeah, yeah, exactly. Sam, you've got to believe me.”

Sam shakes his head. “Actually, I don't. I can see for myself.” He dives into her mind, ripping his way through her orderly walls and barriers. He topples them in an instant, slicing through everything, crashing through her thoughts and splitting her wide open. 

He finds what he's looking for and Ruby screams. 

He slams her mouth shut until they subside.

“Nope, sorry, but I'm just not seeing any of this supposed sincerity on your part. None at all.”

She coughs some more, spitting blood to the floor. “You know, I _was_ wrong about you. You're not a freak. You're a fucking monster.”

“Anything else? Because you were right about one thing, though. I _am_ sorta thirsty.”

“Lilith's gonna flay you alive.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Whatever happens, you won't be around to see it.”

“Fuck you!”

“Not a chance in Hell.” Sam takes her bleeding arm and raises it to his mouth. He pulls on the wound, sucking in her blood in huge gulps.

“You're _never_ gonna get Dean back! Never! And even if you do, you won't be able to hide what you've become from him. Think of that, Sam! He'll hate you, and that's if he even recognizes you after Alastair's done with him.”

Sam keeps at it, drawing in the blood, tuning out her raving until it's barely a low buzz, like insects on a lazy summer's day. 

He bleeds her host nearly dry before he crushes her down, reducing her to ash, leaving her remains amongst the plaster and trash, a dead husk in a dead house. 

He collects his things and drives away, her blood coursing through his body, strengthening him, her thoughts now carefully stowed away in a quiet corner of his mind for future reference. 

Sam slips his new iPod into the dock and heads for I-75, turning up the volume as R.E.M. goes on about the end of the world.

 

_**July 22, 2008 – Booneville, Alabama** _

 

“Well, well, I finally get to meet Freak Boy in the flesh.” The demon's eyes shine yellow as it grunts against Sam's hold on it. All it manages to accomplish is to jiggle the chair the slightest bit. “You're a lot taller than I thought you'd be.”

Sam opens a new document on his laptop, naming and readying it for some new data.

Lightning flashes and lights up every window, followed almost instantly by rumbling thunder as rain pounds the tin roof of the old farmhouse. 

Sam throws another log onto the fire and hunkers down before it, studying the flames as they consume the wood.

“You're making quite the name for yourself, Sam,” the demon says, her voice calm and silky smooth. “The only one of Azazel's kids still breathing. He'd be proud of you. And an amazing family resemblance, too. Especially the eyes.”

More lightning, more thunder, and Sam rises up, moving to the table to riffle through his duffel. 

“I'm positive he'd be absolutely amazed at your progress. Thrilled at just how much you've embraced your true nature. I can say all this because I knew him well, Sam. Very well, if you get my meaning.” She chuckles to herself. “And you know something? I doubt that even he envisioned your true potential. Just how much you'd evolve.”

Sam sets a jug of water on the table, twisting off the cap and dropping a rosary inside. He silently blesses the water as the demon laughs some more.

“All it took was a little shove, a tiny push, and you dove in head first. All your mumbo jumbo about choices just flew out the window, didn't it, Sam? How many of my brothers and sisters have you killed? Countless blacks, dozens of reds, and what, two other yellows? And just how many of those hosts did you suck dry without bothering to save them? Half? More? Oh, yeah, and we can't forget about those two hunters unlucky enough to cross your path. And that deputy in Tennessee. Busy, busy boy.”

Sam pours holy water over the blade of the Knife.

“You know, I wouldn't be surprised if word of your deeds hasn't made it all the way downstairs. Maybe even Alastair's heard whispers, vague murmurs about Freak Boy Sammy Winchester. It'd be a cryin' shame if Dean caught wind of any of this. Yes, a real shame.”

Sam approaches her, his wet blade catching and reflecting glints of the firelight. 

She looks up, her eyes reverting to their natural brown. “It would be just awful if your dear big brother ever learned about you, Sam. Can you imagine it? What Dean would think if he found out just what kind of monster you'd become? Not that you'll ever manage to—”

“Quiet.” Sam cuts her off and her mouth clamps shut. 

He plunges into her mind, sifting through centuries of warped demonthought in seconds. He nods, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He settles down before her, positioning the Knife over the creamy brown skin of her forearm. Such beautiful coloration, and a real shame to have to mark it up.

Sam applies pressure and draws the blade across her flesh. “You can scream, now.”

And she does.

_~*~ * ~*~_

Sam finishes wrapping the body in a fresh, white sheet. Once the rain quits, he'll salt and burn her remains properly.

His research indicated that she'd disappeared from Portland, Oregon over three years ago. A helluva long time for a demon to ride a body. Her family had finally been able to officially declare her dead eighteen months after she'd been possessed. Her husband had even re-married. So there'd definitely been no point in returning her to the world, especially when she'd most likely have been totally fucked in the head after hosting a demon for so long.

He sits down and stares at his laptop for a long while before typing in everything of value that he'd seen in her mind. More of the usual stuff concerning Lilith and the seals, Dean and Alastair in The Pit, the Resistance and the Apocalypse. 

A few new bits of intel on all the important fronts, which is fine.

What he's _really_ after, though, is information far more general in nature. Standard demon operating procedure. All the little details, the stuff they do on a daily basis just to get by. Their unconscious workings, like the autonomic nervous system in humans.

Sam's convinced that the solution to his most annoying problem lies in that area. 

He's surprised and disappointed that so little information exists as to just how demons manage to pierce the veil at will. 

There's no shortage of summoning rituals, the existence of which substantiates the generally accepted phenomenon of demons suddenly appearing somewhere, almost always complete with a host body. Pretty heavy stuff, and seemingly magical to anyone without all the details.

The time discontinuity between topside and Hell certainly explains what appears to be the nearly instantaneous appearance of a demon when summoned. Sam's summoned several demons, and though he's never actually timed how long it took for any of them to show up, it was no longer than a minute and more like thirty seconds. He accepts Bishop's ratio of one month topside being equivalent to ten years downstairs as a given, and more than a few demons he's trapped since then seem to confirm the figure, too.

Crunching the numbers, if it takes a full minute for a summoned demon to appear, said demon has actually had _one hundred thirty minutes_ of Hell time to recognize the summoning, grab a host and pop up wherever they need to be. 

Shitloads of time. 

It definitely removes some of the magical, supernatural fascination from the process, although it doesn't do much to explain the actual mechanics of it. 

Sam finishes entering his notes and closes his laptop. 

The fire's nearly burned out and the rain's stopped.

He hoists the body over his shoulder and heads outside to find a good spot for digging a grave.

 

_**July 29, 2008 – Russelville, Arkansas** _

 

Sam rolls his window down as the trooper walks up to the Impala and shines his maglite into Sam's face.

“What's the trouble, officer? I'm pretty positive I wasn't speeding.”

“License and registration, please. And proof of insurance.”

Sam hands over the papers, careful to place his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel.

“Your rear license plate light is burned out,” the trooper says flatly. “Remain in your vehicle, Mr. Riker while I call this in. Gotta justify my time, you know.”

“Sure, no problem.” Sam watches in his rear-view as the trooper walks around the Impala and toggling his mike, obviously calling in the details. 

He can't believe the guy pulled him over for a freakin' license plate light. Must be one helluva slow night. He turns off the Impala's radio, which is nothing but static.

The trooper returns to his unit, leans in the driver's window, and walks back to the Impala. “Uh, Mr. Riker? I'm going to have to ask you to step from your vehicle, please.”

“What's up?” Sam asks.

“Just routine, sir. Please, step from the vehicle, and keep you hands in plain view.”

“I haven't been drinking, if that's what you're thinking,” Sam says, climbing out of the Impala. 

“Come around the back of your vehicle, please. Mind the oncoming traffic.”

Sam complies, backing up against the Impala's rear end.

“Steubenville, Ohio, huh? You're a long way from home, Mr. Riker.”

“Just a road trip. Taking some time off from school to spend with my brother in Arizona.”

The trooper doesn't respond, clearly distracted

“Something wrong?”

“No sir. A little radio trouble, that's all.”

Sam nods toward the patrol car. “Still have your computer link, at least.”

“Server problems tonight.” The trooper's radio beeps. He toggles the mike mounted next to the collar of his uniform shirt. “This is Alpha 3223, go ahead.”

Sam pretends to be more interested in his boots than what's coming over the trooper's radio. 

Nothing but static comes back, with only one word barely audible: repeat.

“Damn outdated equipment,” the trooper mutters. “Query on Ohio tag Charlie November Kilo eight zero Quebec three. Repeat, Ohio, Charlie November Kilo eight zero Quebec three. Over.” He listens intently for a few moments, but there's no response from his dispatcher. 

Only more static.

“I read that sunspots can affect radio transmissions,” Sam offers.

The trooper glares at him. “All right, I need you to lift your arms up, in line with your shoulders.”

“Oh, man.” 

“Do it, now, please.” 

Sam complies. 

“Close your eyes. Now bring in your right arm and touch the end of your nose with your right index finger.”

Sam does as he's told, but just misses his nose.

“Return your arm to its previous position. Now, I want you to walk in a straight line, heel to toe, without looking at your feet.”

It's far more difficult than it sounds, and even though he hasn't had any booze for hours, he only makes it a few steps before loosing his balance.

“All right, I'm afraid I'm going to have ask you to come with me, Mr. Riker.”

“I haven't been drinking.”

“Suspicion of driving while under the influence. The breathalyzer back at the post will sort it all out. I need you to lace your fingers behind your head and walk around the passenger side of the patrol car, please.”

Sam shakes his head. “Sorry officer, but I just don't have time for this.” He takes a step forward.

The trooper's fast, instantly drawing his sidearm. “Hands behind your head and drop to your knees, now!” 

“Don't think so.” Sam takes another step.

“Last warning! On your knees!”

“Just imagine the paperwork if you fire that thing.”

The trooper hesitates a split second and discharges his weapon. 

Sam counts two shots.

Both bullets hover in mid-air, twirling harmlessly a few inches from Sam's chest. They plink to the asphalt and Sam waves the gun into the tall switchgrass bordering the highway. 

The trooper instinctively glances toward where his gun lands, astonished. He recovers fast, but Sam's right there in front of him, touching his index finger to the officer's forehead.

“Okay, now listen carefully.” 

The trooper's posture relaxes and his face goes slack.

Sam backs away and watches as the trooper climbs into his car and drives away, crossing the nearby westbound lanes, fishtailing through the grassy median and merging into the eastbound lanes, hauling ass back toward Russelville and Lake Dardanelle. 

Sam bends down and taps the housing of the rear license plate light. It flickers twice, and then burns strong.

“Son of a bitch,” Sam mutters, climbing into the driver's seat. Dean would certainly have plenty to say about lax maintenance of his baby. 

At least he'd been able to jam the radio and computer in the patrol car.

He watches for a break in traffic before accelerating into the flow of I-40, resuming his course west.

 

_**August 3, 2008 – Brownsville, Texas** _

 

_“Sam! Sam, help me!”_

_He stumbles through the darkness, the thick smoke and sulfur burning his throat and lungs._

_The air is dense and heavy, oppressive, the heat unbearable._

_“Sam!”_

_Other voices call out, tortured screams, hopeless wails, a multitude of cries for help, for redemption, for release._

_He focuses on only the one voice, concentrating on it, straining to reconcile the bouncing echoes with the true source._

_“Sammy, please!”_

_Bursts of flame erupt on all sides of him, a twisted chorus of bloodcurdling screams rising and falling in perfect synchronicity with the fires._

_He pushes forward, his lungs raw, his eyes watering, each step a new chapter in his book of pain._

_More smoke, more flame, and still he presses on._

_“Sam!”_

_He stumbles, crashing to the ground, the sharp points of heated rock tearing into the flesh of his hands and knees. He wants to cry out but can't._

_He crawls for a few feet, hanging his head and gulping in the relatively untainted air that hovers close to the tortured earth._

_He looks up, and just ahead he sees it, a point of lesser darkness surrounded by the Abyss._

_He summons the last meager shreds of his remaining strength to hoist himself to his feet and slog forward._

_He keeps going, pushing ahead, the pinpoint of light growing stronger with every step._

_“Sam!”_

_The ground rises up before him and he loses his balance, falling forward. The putrid air scorches his nose, his mouth, yet he pulls himself to the top of the outcropping._

_He peers over the edge, blinking uncontrollably at the sudden brightness._

_He's made it, he's found what he's searching for, but he can't move any more._

_His muscles won't respond, they refuse and betray him, no matter how much he rails at them to do so._

_He gazes down into The Pit, the light nearly blinding._

_“Sam!”_

_And then the Darkness turns its visage upon him, all roiling anger and hate and rage._

_Slitted eyes and a slash of a mouth, pure malevolence, misery and pain incarnate._

_It bursts from The Pit toward him, its frigid barbs clawing and ripping, tearing him asunder._

_“Sam, no!”_

“Dean!”

Sam sits bolt upright in his bed, drenched in sweat. He glances around wildly, sucking in deep breaths of stale, motel room air. 

He scoots back against the headboard as the air conditioner whirs away, and an eighteen wheeler air-brakes on the nearby highway.

He throws back the paper thin sheet and rips open the heavy curtains, washing his motel room in harsh mercury vapor light from the parking lot. 

He crawls back into bed and curls into a ball, closing his hand around Dean's amulet. 

After a long time, his breathing smooths out and his heartbeat returns to normal. 

He's had the same nightmare many times. He turns the imagery over and over in his head, and something clicks. 

The light. 

The blinding light that even the black despair of The Pit couldn't extinguish or hide.

Finally, it made sense.

How could he have missed it?

It was so simple, so plain, anyone could see it.

“Hang on, Dean,” he whispers to the empty room. “I'll get you out. Just hang on.”


	5. Into The Black

_**August 10, 2008 – Bowie, Texas** _

 

Sam's eyes snap open, his chest heaving. 

It takes him a few moments to realize he's awake and to get his bearings. His motel room's still dark, the quality of light visible through the gaps in the curtains more grey than black. He sits up, glancing at the beat up digital clock on the nightstand that confirms it's 5:47 and still before dawn.

He hops from the bed, performing a series of quick stretches and calisthenics to clear away the cobwebs and get his blood pumping. He cracks open his laptop next, sitting down to enter everything he can remember from last night's dream. He types as fast as he can, racing to record the details before his conscious mind wipes them away.

For the last week, he's ditched the demon hunting to focus on his recurring dream about Hell. 

If that's what it even is.

At first, he'd thought it nothing more than a generic nightmare, a product of guilt and spicy food too late at night.

He'd dived back into his research on dreamwalking and lucid dreaming then, and even though none of the traditional markers of either seem to apply to his experience, he's convinced that his regular subconscious journeys downstairs are significant.

He prepares himself every night before sleep now, focusing his mind on exactly what he wants to see and where he wants to go. He places mugwart under his pillow, as the herb is believed to help one more easily achieve an effective lucid dream state. He'd really like to get his hands on some iboga root or bark, but since the plant is native to west central Africa, mugwart will have to do.

Reviewing his dream journal has revealed definite patterns. His initial path over the hellish landscape doesn't vary. Several distinct and unique outcroppings always appear at the same points along the path. The rise to the edge of The Pit and its overall appearance remain constant. 

Sam's noted some definite differences in his experiences over the last three nights, especially since he's made conscious efforts to alter things. The terrain and general sensations are always the same, as is the oppressive heat and sulfurous stench. It's Hell, after all. It's clear that the quantities and locations of the billowing clouds of smoke and flame vary subtly with each visit, as does the number and volume of the tortured screams that he hears. 

Including Dean's.

He now easily avoids detection near the end of his dream, closing his eyes and envisioning the Impala to jar himself awake.

And his experiment last night proved _really_ interesting. Instead of waking himself once he'd reached The Pit, he'd backtracked, retracing his steps in the opposite direction. He'd managed to cover a great deal of new territory before he'd reached some sort of barrier, a roiling wall of smoke, ash and flame that threatened to sear him to a crisp even though it appeared to be some distance away. Going for broke, he'd turned around, purposely taking off in a slightly different direction, but still easily finding his way back to The Pit.

It's almost as if he's covering the _same path_ but at different _times_. Less of a dream, and more of—what? A vision? Some sort of astral projection on his part? 

A serious leap, but there really isn't another explanation that seems to fit.

But the best part is that no matter how he wanders, no matter how far he strays from his starting point, he can _always_ find The Pit. 

It's not the hellhole that he's locking onto, or the grotesquely dark hellspawn, either.

It's something else, something brilliant and blinding.

Something that Sam knows better than anything, something that he can find no matter how far away or what plane of existence it lies in.

A homing signal, like tapping into some kind of ethereal GPS.

It's Dean, and Sam's never been more sure of anything in his life.

He finishes his data entry and heads for the bathroom, stripping off his boxers on the way.

He opens the faucets, and it's not long before the water is blessedly hot. Sam's stayed in some really ratty places over the last few years, but the one thing that he's found to be completely fucking essential is a decent supply of hot water. He steps under the spray, and the last bits of sleepiness fade away.

He plans out his day as he lathers up his hair, intending to skip breakfast and hit the road right away. He doesn't like to stay in any one place for much more than a day or two, as Lilith and her lackeys seem able to find him no matter how diligent he is at maintaining his mental barriers. 

He's definitely going to miss this shower, though, if nothing else about the Chisholm Trail Inn.

He soaps himself up and rinses off, lingering under the steamy spray. He turns around, positioning himself so that the full force of the water hits the base of his neck. He rolls his shoulders, shifting slightly to allow the spray to work on his upper back. 

Sam chuckles, imagining how Dean would most likely be pounding on the bathroom door by now, bitching about using up all the hot water. And if he ignored the pounding, how his brother would probably bust in, rip the shower curtain back, and turn off the water himself. 

Or those rare times when Dean would just climb in with him, claiming it made sense to shower together to make sure both of them had a chance to enjoy the hot water.

Sam closes his eyes, the memories of Dean's hands on his soap slicked body seared into his brain. His dick's rock hard in an instant, and he squeezes out a dollop of shampoo into his palm and slathers it all over his stiff length. 

He spreads his long legs as much as he can in the tub, stroking himself slowly at first, his fingers lingering and toying with the super-sensitive head of his dick.

“Oh, Dean,” he groans, gripping himself harder, pistoning his cock while squeezing his balls with his free hand.

His breath starts to come in short gasps as the heat builds, and he pulls on his aching erection mercilessly, faster and harder.

“Dean, oh, god,” he rasps out, yanking on his dick one last time. The heat blossoms and consumes him, reducing him to a grunting husk as his release coats his hand.

Sam slumps against the tile, heart pounding, his spent cock still cradled by his spunk soaked fingers. 

He barely has a few seconds of post-whack bliss before he hears a soft clunking and the warm water turns instantly cool.

Then cold. 

Fucking _ice_ cold.

“Shit!” Sam yelps, scrabbling to escape the frigid jet of water and nearly falling on his ass in the process. 

He whips the faucets closed and grabs a towel. 

“So much for the afterglow.” 

 

_**August 15, 2008 – Kingfisher, Oklahoma** _

 

“That it, buddy?” the clerk asks, not even looking up.

“Yeah, just the water and forty bucks on pump number five,” Sam replies, dropping some bills on the counter.

The clerk jabs at his register, scoops up the cash, and drops some coins onto the counter. “Thanks. Have a great day.” He's back to his cell phone conversation before he slams the cash drawer.

“Yeah, same to you,” Sam shoots back, grabbing his stuff and heading outside to where the Impala waits at the pumps.

Another driving day on tap, and he'd like to at least make the Colorado line before nightfall. The skies are solid gray and rain's definitely on the way, which won't help his timetable any. 

Sam rounds the rear of the Impala and fumbles for the keys, juggling his money clip and bottle of water. “Damn it.” He drops his clip, and then the water, which takes it upon itself to roll under the Impala. He drops to his hands and knees, barely able to nudge the bottle toward him with the tips of his fingers. Back on his feet, he tosses the clip and bottle onto the front seat, finally succeeding in fishing the keys from the deepest pocket of his fatigue shorts.

He's about to open his door when someone slams into him. 

“Oh, sorry stretch. My bad.”

“Uh, no problem,” Sam replies, actually having to look up the slightest bit to meet the guy's gaze. He's definitely used to being the biggest guy in the room, so running into someone even bigger is surprising. Not to mention really disconcerting. “All my fault.”

The guy shakes his head. “Seriously, sorry.” He offers his meaty hand to Sam.

Sam stares at it longer than he should, shaking it anyway. The guy's huge, probably into construction or something physical, his barrel chest stretching the fabric of his strappy t-shirt.

The guy pumps Sam's hand, nearly cutting off the circulation. He finally lets go, tipping the brim of his cowboy hat to Sam. “See ya.”

Sam watches as he climbs into the cab of an old Ford pick-up, raised up and riding on the biggest tires he's ever seen. He looks at his hand to find a scrap of folded paper as the guy drives off in a cloud of dust and exhaust fumes. Sliding into the driver's seat, he unfolds the paper:

_El Charro. One hour. -B_ 


A quick web search on his cell finds a Mexican restaurant with that name just south of town.

Sam fires up the Impala and drives in the opposite direction the Ford had taken, wondering how he'll kill the next fifty-five minutes.

_~*~ * ~*~_

The El Charro in Kingfisher looks about as Mexican as a poodle. More like a hastily made-over steakhouse painted to resemble stucco or adobe or something.

Sam watches the place from the parking lot of a Pizza Hut a few blocks away. He's fortified his barriers and scanned the surrounding area over an over, finding nothing. 

As far as he can tell, the coast is clear.

A minute before the hour is up, the lifted Ford appears and pulls into El Charro's parking lot. 

Sam watches as the big guy gets out, looks around for a minute, and finally swaggers inside. He waits another ten minutes, still watching and scanning. When nothing happens, he decides that he might be hungry for Mexican after all.

_~*~ * ~*~_

“Jerry, you old dog! Long time no see!”

“Ooooof,” Sam gasps as the big guy lifts him off the floor in a crushing bear hug. “Bishop, right?” he whispers, trying to suck some air.

“Yeah. For sure!” Bishop releases Sam and squeezes himself into the booth. “Have a seat. We've got a lot of catchin' up to do.” He grabs his bottle of Corona and guzzles with gusto.

Sam laughs nervously, making a quick scan of the restaurant as he slides across the red vinyl. The place is relatively empty for a Friday afternoon, and Bishop has chosen a booth near a far corner of the eatery, away from the kitchen and restrooms, but close to an emergency exit.

“So, uh, Ralph. What a coincidence. Both of us in Kingfisher at the same time.” Sam slams the table enthusiastically as their waitress drops off two more Coronas.

“Thanks, darlin'!” Bishop booms, his cheerful expression falling flat as soon as the waitress turns away. He mouths _Ralph?_ and rolls his eyes.

Sam shrugs and grabs a bottle, tapping it to Bishop's.

They both drink, and Bishop nods to the bowl of chips and salsa. “Try these. They're homemade. And the chunky salsa is out of this world.”

Sam stares as Bishop digs into the chips. “I'd have never guessed it was you,” he says, leaning on the table, his voice low. 

“What? This?” Bishop flexes one of his host's considerable pecs. “I like to change things up.”

“Yeah, sure. Why not. Is he...is he—”

“Muerto?” Bishop nods. “Drug overdose. Can you believe it? Young guy like this pissing his life away. I was passing through Kansas when he dropped and made myself at home. Might just keep this one for awhile. Nice change of pace, and it certainly gets a lot of attention.”

“I bet.” 

“Only one thing ain't quite up to snuff though.” Bishop looks around and then points a finger straight down to the crotch of his skin-tight jeans. “A cruel twist of fate. I mean _really_ cruel. I'm talkin' nubbins, here. Serious over compensation issues.”

“Bishop—”

“And it's true what they say. The bigger the truck, the smaller—”

“So, this is great, but I don't have all day, Ralph.”

“Right, right. You're straight-to-the-point guy.” Bishop empties his beer and starts on another. “Relax. As long as we don't hang out through happy hour, we're fine.”

“I'm guessing something's up, or you wouldn't have chanced contacting me out in the open like this.”

“A whole mess of something. Lilith's stepped up her game, big time. You know that yellow you wiped down in Alabama?”

“Yeah. The paralegal from Portland.”

“Her name was Kakara. Very old school. One of Lilith's lieutenants.” He leans in close to Sam. “And until you, she was virtually untouchable.”

“So I pissed off Lilith because I nuked one of her Scoobies. Big deal.”

“It _is_ a big deal. Word has it that Lilith went into a frenzy when she heard. The outbreak of tornadoes on July 23rd? That was her. One of my sources swears that she also destroyed a few hundred of her own followers to set an example, to show how serious she considers the whole mess to be.”

“If she's so upset, then she's bound to make a mistake. Leave herself exposed somehow. Sounds good to me.”

“I wouldn't count on that. When she gets pissed, she gets creative. Everyone downstairs is more paranoid than ever. She's even turned up the heat on Alastair. So whatever you're gonna do, do it fast.”

“I'm working on it.”

“Work harder. And another thing: you need to keep a really low profile from now on. By _low_ I mean like non-existent. Off the grid, for however long it takes for you to do your thing.”

Sam nods, swirling his beer bottle around. “It's _that_ serious?”

“Yup. Lilith's got everyone and their grandmother looking for you. She's even resorted to conning some human fringe elements to help her.” Bishop stares Sam down for a long moment. “You're a big target, Sam, in every sense of the word. Sittin' so close to you, I can feel your energy, how you've grown. How powerful you've become. I've never sensed anything like you. Which is great on the one hand, but on the other—”

“I might as well have a bullseye painted on my chest.”

“Yup. Work on occluding yourself. Keep your guard up all the time, man.”

“Shit.”

“And there's one last thing.”

“Of course there is,” Sam blows out a breath and slumps in his seat.

“This plan to free Lucifer is pretty big. There's always been talk about doing it, but it's always been just that. A bunch of hot air. Lilith's serious though, and she's got the power to actually pull it off.”

“That's not news, Bishop.”

“There's no way this could ever be kept quiet. No matter how hard she tried to keep things locked down, there have been leaks. Lots of 'em. The cat's out of the bag, and the plan to free Lucifer has attracted some seriously unwanted attention.” Bishop rolls his eyes upward and keeps them there.

“You mean—”

“It was only a matter of time before the white hats stuck their noses in.”

“Angels? No way. What makes you think that?”

“Anecdotal information only, so far. But I've sensed things. Something new poking around. And there have been signs, too. Omens and portents that haven't been seen for over two thousand years.”

Sam's head reels at the implications of Bishop's news. It makes sense that God _might_ take an interest in seeing to it that Lucifer remains downstairs. But any angelic involvement shouldn't have negative effects on his quest to get Dean back. “At this point, I don't see how that's a problem.”

Bishop shrugs and drains his beer. “Consider this, Sam. How do you think an agent of Heaven's gonna feel about you? White hats tend to shoot first and ask questions later.”

“One more thing to keep an eye out for, I guess.”

“That's all I'm sayin'. Right now, looks as if they're doing nothing but observing. If they decide to get themselves involved, then things'll go from severely complicated to total clusterfuck in no time flat.” Bishop burps loudly and hoists himself from the booth. “It was great seein' ya, Jerry. It'll be a _long_ time before I'll be back around here, though.”

“Got it.” Sam stands and extends his hand.

Bishop ignores the gesture and hugs him tightly, burying his face in the crook of Sam's neck. “Be careful,” he whispers into Sam's ear.

“Yeah, sure, 'course I will,” Sam replies patting Bishop's broad shoulders with both hands.

“We've still got time to kill,” Bishop continues. “Be a shame to let this body go to waste. What say we check into that motel just up the street for a little skin time?” One of his hands drifts down to squeeze Sam's ass.

“Whoa,” Sam squeals in a most unmanly fashion, struggling to extricate himself from Bishop, who releases him a second later. “That's not funny.”

“Who's joking? No strings, promise.”

Sam can tell by the heat burning his cheeks that he's blushing and probably as red as the vinyl seating. What's worse is that for a split nanosecond, he'd actually considered Bishop's offer. The world really was spinning out of control. 

He glances over his shoulder to find a couple of senior citizens scowling at them from across the dining room. “Hey, that's, um, sweet, but I can't. Ya know, I think we should both like, um, hit the road.”

“Can't blame a guy for trying. I'll keep this warm for ya as long as I can, though.” He tips his hat and brushes past Sam.

Sam watches him leave, the tiniest bit of disappointment welling up within him at the prospect of being on his own again. With any luck, though, he won't have to go it alone much longer.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Sam whirls around to find their waitress standing there. “Oh, man, I'm really sorry about all that.”

She looks totally perplexed for a moment but recovers quickly. “Your friend said that you'd take care of this.” She hands Sam the bill, throws him a sidelong glance and scurries back toward the kitchen.

“Great,” Sam mumbles, looking out the window just as Bishop's Ford peels out of the parking lot. 

 

_**August 26, 2008 – Centennial, Wyoming** _

 

Sam adjusts the angle of his solar panel, restoring its optimal position after the heavy thunderstorm the previous night. Satisfied, he goes back inside the cabin to ensure that the battery is once again charging properly. 

He's taken Bishops advice to heart, and he can't imagine being any further off the grid than he is now. The isolated hunting cabin is perfect for his needs, located a few hundred yards from an old logging road and overlooking a moderately sized lake. 

Sam's been back down to Centennial only once since he'd arrived at the cabin nearly two weeks ago. 

He'd left the Impala in secure storage back in Cheyenne, figuring it wouldn't hurt to give her a rest and switch to something different for awhile. The older Toyota 4x4 that he'd picked up served double duty in that it wasn't as conspicuous as the Impala, and it was better suited to going bush. That, and it also didn't make any sense to bring Dean back just to have his brother immediately kill him for dragging his beloved car up and down some logging roads.

Sam checks on the jar containing his most recent batch of mugwart solution, giving it a thorough shaking. He'd learned how to make the tincture using nothing but water, ethanol and mugwart leaves. Once he'd started ingesting small doses of the solution every night, his abilities to control and participate in his visions had increased exponentially. 

With nothing but time on his hands, Sam had thrown himself into his research. 

He'd come across the concept of an _etheric_ , or _subtle_ body while scanning some articles on Theosophy. He was surprised to find that many disciplines believed in the existence of this exact double of the physical body, Hinduism and Buddhism among them. The concept dated back still further, as the Sanskrit _linga sarira_ translated as “etheric double”.

This exact counterpart of the physical body was thought to separate itself upon death, allowing the body to disintegrate. Early Alchemists created the Aether Theories, which described a medium that occupied every single point in space, even the interiors of physical bodies. This medium allowed for the transmission of all sorts of energies, light being the easiest to demonstrate. Some Alchemists theorized that disengaged etheric doubles, once freed of their physical body, could travel the Aether, conceivably anywhere.

Later on, “aether” became “ether”, and as organized theological and religious associations formed and evolved, the term “ehteric body” fell from favor, eventually coming to be referred to as “the soul”. 

Sam also found rituals from every age and civilization that allowed the most powerful shamen, high priests and medicine men to allegedly separate their spirit or soul from their corporeal body and walk anywhere they pleased, whether it be on earth or some spiritual plane.

The best discovery, though, is that everything he reads concerning etheric projection describes how that "subtle" body is able to affect changes, to touch and grasp and move solid objects at will, a tremendous advantage to simple astral projection, where the spirit can observe but is helpless to interact with anything corporeal.

If he hopes to physically lift Dean's soul from Hell, etheric projection is just the ticket he's been looking for. It clears away the last huge hurdle facing him, as even Bishop hadn't been able to adequately explain how the higher demons could appear and disappear at will, taking their meatsuit with them. Bishop could just _do_ it, similar to how a person could operate a computer without having to know its exact inner workings.

That ability would be a handy one to have, and Sam might master it someday. But for now, it'll wait.

The concept of using his subtle body consumes him, and he's barely been able to contain himself as he devours essay after essay, article after article, ancient text after ancient text. 

His previous experiments with his visions of Hell were clearly crude attempts at etheric projection, infantile stumblings in the dark. Literally.

Armed with his battery of new knowledge, he's studied every ritual he could find.

The first night he'd tried to project himself, he'd only managed to get as far as the foot of his sleeping bag. The next night, he'd moved around the cabin, using his etheric body to slide a chair and pick up a pencil. Both attempts had been very draining, and he'd barely been able to move after waking himself.

There's nothing to do but study and practice, and fortunately his ability to project grows stronger and more stable as time wears on.

Now, after ten days,he's ready to attempt his most radical experiment yet.

He checks his watch, anxious for sundown. 

Unable to wait any longer, he measures out four ounces of the mugwart tincture, more than twice the amount he's used to. He lies down on his sleeping bag and closes his eyes, reciting the litany of verses he now knows by heart. 

He focuses on himself first, imagining that he can see every part of his body, every organ and muscle, every bone and ligament, every cell. He senses the link between his two bodies, feels the energy that binds his etheric form to his physical one. He toys with the bonds, alternately loosening and tightening them, watching as his bodies barely separate before uniting again. 

He's ready.

Sam now visualizes where he wants to be. 

He knows the place like the back of his hand. 

There's a sharp yank, a pulling at his gut that quickly accelerates to a dizzying sensation of great speed. It's far more intense than before, but bearable. He stops suddenly, feeling like a snapped rubber band. 

He sees his destination from above, as a bird might. He spirals down, like a leaf on a slight breeze, round and down, round and down, finally landing with a soft bump. He focuses on the door, moving up the rickety front steps that for once, don't creak under his weight. He reaches up and finds the key hidden on the top of the doorframe, slipping it into the deadbolt and unlocking it. He replaces the key and easily pushes the door open, carefully closing and locking it behind him. 

Moving through the house, he reaches out to touch, to feel, to move things, and it requires more concentration, more effort than he's used to. He walks into the large room, the overflowing bookcases and cluttered desk familiar, comforting. 

A breath of wind through the open windows rustles the curtains, and it feels like a ghost exhaling on his skin.

He clears a spot on the desk, finding a clean scrap of paper and a pen. He writes quickly and simply.

Bobby, Everything's fine. I'm fine. It's all going to be okay. Sorry for cutting you out. Hope to see you soon. Sam


__

He looks around once more, shocked at how great the desire is to stay.

But he's not really here, and it's time to go.

_Funkytown_

The rubber band snaps again, whipping him backward. He cartwheels through the void, a deafening roar numbing his ears. It grows louder and louder as he tumbles backward until...

...sudden stillness and quiet.

A chorus of crickets intrudes upon his senses, and while he no longer feels like he's falling, his head is definitely still whirling. He cracks open an eye, and he can just make out the interior of the cabin, shafts of moonlight spilling in through the single window. He opens the other one, and it seems to help with the dizziness. He tries to lift his arm to check his watch, but it feels like lead, heavy and dead. 

Sam closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and wills himself into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

_**August 28, 2008** _

 

Sam doesn't try etheric projection again. He's sure of the process, and he's saving his strength for his final effort.

He's laid around, weak and queasy, for the better part of the day after his projection to Bobby's. 

Fortunately, he doesn't have long to wait for proof that he's succeeded. By the time he feels strong enough to sit up and open his laptop, he finds an email from Bobby waiting for him. He'd left one of his ghost email addresses active, and Bobby still had it, as Sam hoped he would.

Sam finally feels ready, with the means and will to accomplish his task.

He just needs more time to rest, collect himself, build up his strength.

Time passes strangely for him now, the waning summer days alternately fleeting and timeless. 

He drifts in and out of consciousness, keeping himself from dreaming, saving every shred of energy that he can. 

There are times that he senses something new, something different on the extreme reaches of his perceptions. His mind wanders, random bits of stored knowledge occasionally floating to the surface.

Like how Greek mythology embraced the idea of many beings inhabiting the universe, humans and animals existing alongside of elemental spirits such as gnomes, sylphs and fairies. The Greeks believed that the elemental's souls had never inhabited a human body, and that a human soul, upon death of the body, could choose to reincarnate as an elemental, or higher form.

Early biblical transcripts went into great detail about the “heavenly host” and “angels of the lord”, pure beings whose souls had never been human, and therefore, were closest to God.

Was that what he was feeling?

Bishop's angels, maybe? Fantastical elementals? The armies of heaven finally roused from millennia of slumber? 

Whatever it is, it's far away, even further than Dean.

Right now though, Dean's all that matters.

 

_**September 3, 2008** _

 

Sam shivers in the cool, early morning air, toweling himself off as fast as he can. The water of the lake is definitely clean and clear, but cold enough to make his balls want to crawl right up inside him.

He yanks on his jeans and steps into his boots, sprinting for the cabin, as much for the heat of the fireplace as he hopes to get his blood pumping. He finishes dressing before the dwindling fire, downing the last of his instant coffee and oatmeal. 

There's not much left of any of his supplies, but it's okay as he's ready to leave this place, never to return.

It's doesn't take him long to pack up his stuff and stow it in the Toyota. 

He cleans up the cabin, ensuring the embers in the hearth are completely out and that everything is as he'd found it. He buries his trash behind the cabin and then sits on the threshold for a long time, watching the sunlight reflect off the surface of the lake.

His week-long hibernation has left him revitalized, physically primed and feeling stronger than ever. 

Rationally, logically, he knows he's done all that he can.

It's academic now.

He watches the pastoral scene for awhile longer before fetching a shovel from the bed of the pick-up.

Just one more loose end to take care of.

Sam walks around the back of the cabin, heading straight away from it until he's a few yards inside the tree line. He stands there for some time, staring at the three shallow graves at his feet. He carefully shovels away the top layers of soil, using his hands to expose the remains in each grave.

For some reason, this is the one thing he's avoided dealing with. Of everything that he's done, of all the rules that he's broken, _this_ had always been the last thing, the last hurdle that he'll have to clear away to complete his transformation.

He knows he's capable, that he can do it.

Everything else pales in comparison to the final puzzle piece, all of his demonic powers, the blood, the projection, all could somehow be rationalized away, no matter how ridiculous it might seem. He's actually done just that, fooling himself that he's just been adding some new skills to his repertoire. 

He's kept telling himself that he's still Sam Winchester, son of Mary and John, Dean's little brother, witness to darkness and pain, yet still...Sam. 

He's done all of it with the best of intentions. That had to count for something, right? 

That had to make all the difference. Didn't it?

But this...this is the point of no return. 

For real.

Sam concentrates on the decomposed forms in the three graves.

He holds his hand out over the first.

“As you were.”

He watches as the rabbit looks around in surprise and hops away into the tall grass.

“And you.”

The fox leaps from its grave, ears flat, nose twitching. The next instant, it bolts into the woods.

“You, too.”

The coyote struggles to regain its footing, locking hungry eyes on Sam and snarling.

“Go on.”

The coyote growls and backs away a few feet before turning and heading for the lake.

Sam watches the coyote until he can't see it any longer.

He isn't human anymore. 

He doesn't know what he is. 

All he knows is that he's done it all for Dean.

For his brother, his love.

How much of himself was he willing to destroy to save the very center of his universe? 

Was the love of one man justification enough to jeopardize the very fabric of existence?

If there _was_ an answer, did it even matter now?

_~*~ * ~*~_

Sam closes and latches the door to the cabin, shrugging into his flannel as he climbs into the cab of the Toyota.

He turns it over, the ticking of the tired four cylinder oddly comforting. 

He plugs in his iPod's power cord, taps “play” and turns up the volume on the radio, leaning back and closing his eyes.

_When you look you see right through me, Cut the rope, I crash to my knees. Fallen and broken, Every single time. Yeah, here comes the water. It comes to wash away the sins of you and I. This time we'll see, Like holy water, It only burns you faster than you'll ever dry. This time with me..._ 


Sam listens to the song for a few more moments before sitting up and throwing the shifter into first.

He adjusts the rear view mirror, his totally white eyes reverting back to misty green.

Sam releases the emergency brake, lets out the clutch, and heads toward the logging road and Centennial.

 

_ Lyrics taken from “Slither” by Velvet Revolver _


	6. Together, We Burn

_**September 5, 2008 – Cheyenne, Wyoming** _

 

“Okay, here's the invoice detailing your new contract. 10 x 20 non-climate controlled unit for twelve months, reflecting a fifteen percent discount for pre-payment.” The clerk, whose tag declares his name to be “Harley”, slides the invoice across the counter. “The total is $979.96, tax included.”

Sam scans the invoice and signs it. “MasterCard okay?” 

“All the same to me,” Harley replies, studying the front of the card before turning it over to check the signature. Instead of sliding the card through his terminal, he enters the numbers manually, one at a time. “I really despise this new machine. Old one worked just fine.” He punches in the last number and the thing beeps at him. “Damn. Musta hit the wrong button. Lemme give it another try.”

Sam blows out a breath as Harley wrestles with the credit card machine. 

He's decided to head back to Pontiac, _feeling_ rather than reasoning that it's a good idea to be near Dean's remains when he goes for broke. Initially he'd thought the Gate in Wyoming to be the logical place to effect Dean's rescue, but it seems to make more sense to keep his shell safe in some hotel room rather than out in the open, exposed and vulnerable.

It'd struck him to retrieve the Impala while driving through Cheyenne, figuring that if his plan is successful, one of the first things Dean'll want to see is his car. He's decided to hang onto and store the Toyota rather than just abandoning it, as it definitely wouldn't hurt to have an extra ride stashed away for emergencies.

“There!” Harley declares triumphantly. “Finally got the damned thing to work.” He slides the card and two receipts to Sam. “Need your doodle again, and that one's mine. Damn technology. Too many bells'n whistles. Everything's so damn small, too. Practically need a microscope to use anything anymore.”

Sam hands over the signed copy and Harley staples it to his invoice, dropping it into a vertical file.

“Thanks, Mr. Zinn. Appreciate the business. Remember where your unit is?”

“Yeah, I'm fine.” Sam turns to leave, pausing to slide the card and receipt into his money clip.

“Okie dokie, Sam. Mighty sweet of you to remember Dean's car, not that he'll ever see it again.”

Sam whirls around as the demon fumbles with a gun, struggling to aim it and release the safety. Sam sends the gun flying before the demon can pull the trigger. 

It tries to smoke out, but he grabs onto it, forcing it back into its host. 

“I knew this old fart was too fucking slow,” the demon seethes, its eyes firered.

“Good thing I'm not.” Sam extends himself to scour its thoughts but he's forced back, unable to penetrate the demon's mental defenses. He tries again, with the same result.

“You're good, Freak Boy, but some of us have had a few hundred years to sharpen our skills.” It laughs as Sam forces it into a chair. “Have a nice trip.”

Sam pulls and nukes the demon, checking Harley's pulse and finding it weak but steady. He touches Harley's forehead, planting the suggestion that he'd grown faint and passed out after waiting on a customer. He cleans up the pile of ashes as best he can and heads for the Toyota.

_~*~ * ~*~_

Sam switches out the vehicles, locking up the unit with the Toyota inside. He guides the Impala past the rental office, relieved to find that no other customers had come by in the meantime. He heads for the interstate, waiting a few minutes before placing the infamous anonymous tip about someone needing help.

Seems as if his trip back to Pontiac isn't going to be as easy as he'd thought.

 

_**September 8, 2008 – Avoca, Iowa** _

 

Sam makes good time, breaking one of the Hunter's cardinal rules by sticking to I-80 instead of lesser traveled state routes or county roads. 

Stopping only when he has to for gas and food will present fewer opportunities for ambushes by hellspawn. 

Bishop hadn't been kidding about Lilith stepping things up and having eyes everywhere. He senses more demons than usual, but never really close by, which probably means they're still there, just occluding themselves.

He'd had to stop once so far for gas in Nebraska, fueling up and beating it back to the highway in less than five minutes. Nothing out of the ordinary had gone down, a definite plus.

He's been driving for almost nine hours and it's full-on night, which isn't helping him to stay awake. A huge yawn works its way out, and he finally admits that he'd better find a place to grab some shut eye. Either that, or end up in the median or a ditch. 

And to seal the deal, the needle of the gas gauge is getting damn close to “E”. Fuel efficiency isn't one of the Impala's best attributes.

He takes the next exit, passing up the handful of motels clustered around the interchange and heading south toward someplace called Avoca. 

He's there in a few minutes, and the town is much smaller than he'd hoped, little more than a main intersection with a handful of side streets. He peels off the highway and into a residential area, making a few random turns until he spots what he's looking for.

Sam kills the lights and backs the Impala into the driveway of a house with a scruffy lawn and a “for sale” sign. 

A quick check confirms the house is empty, and within minutes, he's jimmied the garage door lock and parked the Impala inside. 

He salts the garage door, the single window and the door leading inside the house. He grabs a blanket from the trunk and hangs it over the window.

Satisfied that he's taken every precaution possible, Sam climbs into the back seat and prepares to settle in. He reaches over the front seat to pop open the glove box, retrieving the Glock stored there. He freezes, staring at a lumpy brown package tied with rough twine. 

He sinks into the back seat, turning the small package over and over in his hands. Holding his penlight in his mouth, he carefully unties the twine and unfolds the slick, brown wrappings to reveal some plant matter, a woody root.

Sam unfolds a scrap of paper wrapped around the root and instantly recognizes the handwriting:

_Thought this iboga root might come in handy. Supposed to be better than mugwart. Wasn't easy to get, but I pulled some strings. Couldn't chance giving it to you in person. This was the only place I could think of. Hope you get it in time to use it. Good luck, \- B .P.S. Sweet ride._ 


“Son of a bitch.” Sam re-wraps the iboga and drops it on the front seat. “Bishop.”

He finds it a bit creepy that Bishop had known where to find the Impala, let alone that he'd stashed it in the first place. Was the demon following him? If he was, he'd definitely have had to ditch that huge Ford, which could probably be seen from outer space.

At worst, Bishop was playing him just like Ruby had. But Sam had scanned Bishop's mind for days back in Hurricane, and there'd been no sign of any ulterior motives on the demon's part, unless they'd been hidden.

At best, Bishop had been keeping an eye on him from a distance, and he'd been tailed to the storage place when he'd hidden the iboga, which could easily explain why a red was waiting there. 

Sam yawns again and settles down, throwing a long leg across the seat. She may get crappy mileage, but at least the Impala's backseat was big enough to get marginally comfortable in. He's spent more than a few nights back there, curled up on the black vinyl, listening to Dean snore up front. 

And she's been witness to far more than just the two of them sleeping, as he and Dean had steamed up the windows and rocked the shocks on more occasions than he can count.

Ensuring that his gun is handy, he closes his eyes, planning to dream about that one time when he and Dean went through an entire squeeze bottle of chocolate syrup.

 

_**September 9, 2008 – Durant, Iowa** _

 

Sam finishes filling up the Impala, and as he's walking by to replace the fuel nozzle, he notices what could be a pretty good sized ding to her left rear quarter panel.

He replaces the nozzle and bends down to check out the possible dent when he senses movement out of the corner of his eye. He instinctively ducks in the opposite direction, but the demon gets the better of him.

The thing's knife doesn't find home, but it opens a deep gash along Sam's upper right arm.

A woman fueling her minivan on the opposite side of the pumps screams, and Sam sends the demon flying, its knife clattering to the concrete. 

The demon lands a split second later, about fifteen feet away.

Sam jumps in and fires up the Impala, tromping on the gas. He fishtails his way across the gas station's parking lot, just as a maroon Camry pulls in. 

Sam whips the steering wheel hard left, but the Impala's rear end insists on sliding to the right. He tries to compensate, but there's a serious bump-a-thump followed immediately by the telltale sound of grinding and crunching metal. The Impala shudders a second and Sam glances into the rearview as the Camry whirls sideways, its passenger quarter smashed to hell. The sedan mows through a tire display flanking the gas pumps.

Finally regaining control, he heads south and away from I-80 as blood pools on the seat next to him.

 

_**September 12, 2008 – Muscatine, Iowa** _

 

Sam changes the dressing on his wound, noting with satisfaction that there are no signs of infection. He cleans the eight inch long gash, ensuring that all of his stitchwork is holding up like it should. He applies a clean dressing and flops back on the bed.

After the attack, he'd driven as far as he could before stopping and parking behind a shopping center.

The damage to the Impala hadn't been horrible, but bad enough: some serious dents and crinkling to the passenger quarter panel; the right bumper end was toast, as well as the quarter extension and the right taillight and bezel. Nothing that he and Bobby couldn't fix, and the least of his worries at the moment, but Dean'd have his balls for breakfast. 

He'd then torn up one of his shirts and temporarily wrapped his arm before heading south again.

He hadn't gotten far when things took a turn for the worse, his head aching and his stomach doing loop the loops. The demon must've treated the blade of the knife with something unpleasant, and it was obvious that he'd have to find a place to crash and fast.

When his vision started to blur, he'd been forced to check into motel, despite the risks. He simply couldn't have driven any further at the time.

He'd spent the next forty-eight hours in his room, feverish and sick to his stomach, a sitting duck.

The fever had broken during the third night, and he'd awoken feeling much better but far from one hundred percent.

He hadn't been able to control his dreams during those three nights, and he'd been to The Pit every time, unable to do anything but watch. Most everything was the same as ever, with one troubling exception: Dean hadn't called his name, not even once.

Sam checks his watch and hoists himself from the bed, packing his duffel.

He's spent far too much time in one place, and he needs to get moving again.

He slings the duffel over his shoulder and flicks off the safety on his Glock, sliding the gun down the back of his jeans.

He scans the area one more time before turning the knob and opening the door.

 

_**September 14, 2008 – Pontiac, Illinois** _

 

Sam arrives in Pontiac without further incident, although he's sensed demonsign all the way from Muscatine. Pontiac seems to be clear, but it's a good bet that demons masking themselves are lurking around.

Not the best of situations if Sam can't sense them and they can't sense him. Funny in a sad way, like two blind, old dogs that can only fight if they stumble into each other.

Everyone's in the dark on this one.

The mechanics of exactly how everything will work boggles Sam's mind, and he's had to actively suppress his natural instinct to over-analyze. 

He's got to go on faith this time out. 

He checks into a hotel smack in the middle of downtown, hoping that the central location is public enough to deter demons from instigating a showy confrontation. While a reliable operating procedure in the past, there's no telling if it'll be effective now, especially considering the events of the last week.

Once he's salted the door and windows, Sam lies down, far more fatigued than he should be.

Although he feels much more like himself, the effects of the knife attack linger.

Hopefully another few days' rest and meditation will restore his strength. 

If not, he's got to act anyway, as he's finding it increasingly hard to ignore the burning in his gut that keeps telling him Dean is running out of time.

 

_**September 17, 2008** _

 

Sam measures out six ounces of the iboga root tincture and swirls it around in the glass. It looks like mud and smells worse, but it's purported effectiveness at facilitating ehteric projection is pretty much unparalleled. 

At least that's what his research tells him. Even if it proves to be no more effective than mugwart, it certainly can't hurt to try it.

He's a bit hesitant that he hasn't actually used iboga yet, but considering that he's just now regained his strength, he doesn't want to waste any more time experimenting. 

Lilith will have to wait, too. 

Dean's the priority right now.

Sam swallows the iboga tincture, and it's all he can do to force it down. He gags a few times, an uneasy heat forming in his belly.

Dropping onto the bed, he squeezes his eyes shut and prepares himself.

“Here I come, Dean.”

_~*~ * ~*~_

Chaos.

Insanity.

Confusion at every turn, blinding flashes and blasting sounds that make no sense.

Belched flame and searing clouds of smoke compete with nightmare fireworks overhead.

He slogs ahead, the acrid air heavier and more foul than its ever been.

Another crushing wave of sound, like a pipe organ screaming, flattens him to the rocky ground.

He's lost all track of time and place.

The chorus of twisted screams winds up again just as more explosions rumble and shake the earth.

It's not supposed to be like this.

Something's changed.

More flame, more smoke, more _everything_.

He drags himself up, hunched over and hands before him, feeling his way along as though blind.

Each step seems to take days, maybe years. 

He stumbles forward again, crashing into an outcropping of sharpness. 

Its shape is familiar and he steadies himself on it, pulling himself to his aching feet.

He leaps forward, struggling to keep upright for more than a few steps at a time.

Finally, the ground rises before him, that familiar, rocky slope.

He claws his way to the top, and gazes into The Pit.

Yet another discharge of impossible sound right overhead blasts the air from his lungs.

He rises up, standing at the very edge, buffeted by stinging whirlwinds of ash and smoke.

The Dark Thing is nowhere in sight. 

Nothing but Light fills his blurred vision.

Leaping into the center of The Pit, he dives straight toward the blinding form there.

He grabs onto the Brightness with his right hand, holding it with all his might.

It responds to him, entwining Itself around his body. 

He reaches out with his other hand, concentrating, drowning out the madness surrounding him.

He focuses every last shred of his energy, every molecule of his body on escape.

He wills them to rise.

With all his might he lifts them both, slowly at first but with ever increasing speed.

They rise above The Pit, a wave of rancorous despair surging toward them.

He takes them higher and higher, arrowing away from the tortured blackness below.

_~*~ * ~*~_

Fatigue.

Confusion.

His mind is dull, fuzzed, out of focus.

He strives to employ order, to envision his destination, his goal.

Impossibilities buffet him, wailing shards of light coupled with viscous, roiling screams.

Scrabbling, grasping, pulling.

He marshals his energies once more, channeling it all into one last burst.

He locks onto the image of the clearing in his mind, the ring of stately pines, the crude grave marker...

...and he wills them there.

Energy surging to every limb, every pore, every molecule.

He is Fire.

Acceleration.

Pain. 

They explode to the surface, his shockwave erupting outward and laying waste.

He crumples to the ground, dazed, momentarily lost, only one thought echoing in his mind.

_As you were._

Another burst, and he's alone, the brightness gone.

He tries to stand, tries to move, but cannot. 

His vision fades and his limbs refuse to respond as a frigid numbness overtakes him.

He rolls over, dragging himself toward the grave, horrified.

Hoarse cries assault his ringing ears. 

Weak pounding from below ices his soul.

_No._

His head swims, horror turning to rage.

_NO!_

The ground trembles as the crust of dead grass and weeds rises and spilts apart.

The end of the rough casket appears, splintered and broken.

He tries to scream, but a million knifepoints of pain pierce his body, immobilizing him.

He's done.

Finished.

Out of time. 

Collapsing.

Get out. Go back.

_Funkytown_

The darkness claims him, and he knows no more.

 

_**September 19, 2008** _

 

Sam pulls on a clean t-shirt, feeling a helluva lot better after a shower. Unfortunately, the Astor won't rank very high as far as quality and quantity of hot water goes.

He's still a bit wrecked after his excursion downstairs, but aside from a mild headache and a few pulled muscles, he really can't complain. 

Apparently the accolades concerning iboga root are for real. Sure, he'd been totally drained after snapping himself back into his physical body, sleeping ten hours straight. Considering the length of the projection and how long he'd stumbled around looking for The Pit, he still felt better than most of his shorter trips using mugwart.

He has no clue as to what was going on in Hell as he searched for Dean. Were the psycho pyrotechnics evidence of weather patterns? A downstairs version of a thunderstorm or hurricane, maybe? Whatever it was, he'd barely managed to get through it.

Sam sits at the table and pours himself a shot. It's refreshing to have a belt because he wants to rather than trying to drown in it. He wakes up his laptop and checks his watch. 

The GPS on his Wedge Antilles cell had been activated almost eleven hours ago.

The most likely place Dean would go is South Dakota and Bobby's. If that's the case, and he's pretty sure it is, the drive from Bobby's to Pontiac is right around ten hours, so he's expecting company any minute.

At least he hopes Dean will turn up soon.

Until that email from his cell provider, he'd really had no indication that he'd been successful in getting Dean _all the way_ back. Out of The Pit, yeah. But the most important thing? Nada.

He hadn't been in any state to make a dream journal entry when he'd made it back topside, so his memories of his experiences downstairs are sketchy. He clearly recalls the insane conditions, finding The Pit, and lifting them both out of there. Of the trip upstairs, Sam's memories are hazier still. He recalls a sense of profound weariness and then crushing anxiety as their ascent reached its end. 

Sam reaches out to try and sense Dean's soul, pushing himself until his head's ready to explode. He can't find any sign of it, which could be good if he's been successful and Dean's soul is back where it belongs. He does note plenty of demonsign in the area though, but none close enough to the hotel to worry about. 

At least he can use _that_ to explain his presence in Pontiac.

He absently searches the web awhile before downing another shot and returning to his pacing of the room. 

He's got to keep his head, especially in the homestretch. 

The fact that he's going to have to act _really_ fucking surprised when Dean shows up has been weighing on him all day. Worse, the realization that he'll have to keep it up indefinitely settles in, doing nothing to ease his anxiety.

The gravity of the whole thing is almost overwhelming, that he's going have to lie to Dean, right from the very first second he sees him. 

How could he have not thought of this before? 

Sam knows his brother well enough that it's not possible to say anything about most of his activities over the last four months. Okay, probably everything.

That he'd sucked demon blood would be enough to set Dean's head spinning, let alone any of the other gory details, like how he'd fucked up the Impala. 

Dean can never find out what he can do or what he's become.

A super freak, a monster.

The possibility that Dean might have some sense of what happened crosses Sam's mind, too. Maybe he already knows what went down. There's also no telling how badly Dean's been damaged by forty hellish years of torture.

Way too many questions, and no possible answers until Dean actually walks in.

Sam's running through his possible reactions for the hundredth time when solid knocks rattle the door to his room.

“Oh, shit,” he mutters, sucking in deep breaths as his heart tries to climb up into his throat.

He adopts what he hopes is his most annoyed expression and whips open the door. “Yeah, what is it?”

Sam swears that everything...the entire universe...stops for that second. There's no way he'll ever forget this moment. 

Ever. 

Bobby stands there, scruffy as always, but definitely tired. He gives a nearly imperceptible nod to Sam and then stares at the floor.

And there's Dean.

Just as Sam remembers him, just as he'd been.

Sam forgets how to breathe as Dean cracks his trademark crooked smile. 

Dean's eyes travel the length of Sam's body, from head to toe and back again. 

Sam tries to talk, but he's forgotten how to do that, too. If he didn't have one hand clamped to the door, he'd probably be on the floor right now.

Dean smiles. “Hey, Sammy.”

Sam knows he's gawking like an idiot. Somehow, a tiny part of his brain pipes up to remind him that it's time for another performance. He releases his death grip on the door and backs up into the room.

Dean takes that as a sign to come in, and Bobby follows. 

“I know. I look damn good.” Dean's looking around the room when Sam springs into action.

“What the fuck are you?” Sam roars, drawing the Knife and lunging for Dean. Of course he holds back, giving Bobby ample time to block him and knock the Knife from his hands.

“It's really him!” Bobby yells, shoving Sam against the wall. “It's Dean. Believe me, I've gone through all this already.”

Sam puts up a struggle for a few seconds more, staring at Bobby, who just nods.

“Yeah, it's really me,” Dean adds, planting both hands on his hips, his expression calm.

Bobby releases him and Sam takes a step toward his brother. “Dean?” 

Dean nods and smiles that smile of his again, the blinding one that Sam can't believe he'd almost forgotten about. 

Sam grabs Dean, pulling him in tight. He nuzzles the side of Dean's neck, working to press every bit of himself against his brother. He can barely believe that it's real, that everything worked, but there's no denying that it's really Dean—solid and in the flesh. He breathes in his brother's unmistakable musk as Dean nearly hugs the air out of his lungs.

Sam lifts his head, staring into Dean's eyes that have gone heavy lidded and hungry.

“Sam,” Dean murmurs, still holding Sam tight. He licks his lips before crashing them to Sam's.

Sam responds ravenously, lifting his hands up to cradle Dean's head. 

Dean grabs Sam's ass with both hands, walking Sam backward and into the wall. He devours Sam's mouth, pausing to nip and bite Sam's bottom lip.

Sam moans in response, bucking his hips into Dean's waist, his cock hardening in his jeans.

“Uh, think I'll get a room,” Bobby says. “Gimme a call when you're, um, done.”

Dean breaks the kiss, turning to face Bobby. “You can stay. I know I don't mind.”

Sam watches as Bobby's eyes go wide. “Thanks, but I'll pass this time.” He starts to say something else, thinks better of it and makes a hasty retreat, slamming the door.

“Was he blushing?” Dean says, flashing his most wicked grin. “I think he was.”

“It really is you,” Sam replies grinding his hips some more. “Perverted as ever.”

“Damn right it's me, Sasquatch.” Dean slides his hands up and under Sam's t-shirt, his fingers tracing the lines of Sam's abs. “Man, I've so missed this.” He lifts up the t-shirt and runs his hands over Sam's chest. He leans in, teasing a hard nipple with the tip of his tongue. Dean circles the mounded flesh a few times before taking the peak between his teeth and pulling, eliciting another moan from Sam. 

“Take it off,” he commands, backing away and kicking off his boots.

Sam complies, yanking the shirt over his head and slinging it away. He then bends down to start on his own boots.

“Leave 'em on,” Dean barks, shrugging out of his denim shirt. “For now.”

Sam nods, noting the thick outline of his brother's hard-on stretching the fabric of his low-slung jeans. Dean's gaze lingers on his own fresh wound for a quick second, and then Dean's pulling off his own t-shirt. Sam's surprised to find Dean's torso as firm and muscled as ever, totally clear of the multitude of scars and scrapes acquired from years of Hunting. 

Sam hadn't expected that, and then his gaze wanders to his brother's right shoulder where he finds another surprise. A fresh scar in the outline of a hand. A _big_ hand. “Holy shit,” he breathes, staring at the scar, which resembles some kind of relief in raised flesh, angry and red.

“Screw that,” Dean says, palming Sam's denim-clad cock. “We'll worry about it later. You don't have a clue about how long I've been thinking about this, needing it,” he breathes, stepping close to Sam and looking up into his eyes. “Too fucking long.” He grinds his groin into Sam's thigh, both hands slipping down and inside the back of Sam's jeans. “So fucking big.” He licks a trail up the center of Sam's chest and collarbone, stopping to suckle and lave at the taut skin. “So big, Sammy.”

Sam's fingers trace the cartography of Dean's back as he presses his hard-on into Dean's abs. He stares at the scar, his mind barely able to comprehend that he'd done it, that he'd marked Dean when dragging him from The Pit. 

Dean's sucking turns to biting, each nip more intense than the last. 

"Yours,” he says as Dean finishes marking him.

“Fuckin' A.” Dean pulls off his jeans and boxer briefs, his thick cock bobbing free. 

Sam falls to his knees, his hands all over Dean's muscled thighs. He encircles the base of Dean's erection with one big hand while the other's fingers tease the crack of Dean's ass. He has to bend down to get his mouth on his brother's dick, swirling his tongue around the swollen head and teasing the slit a few times. Each lick and swirl draws a grunt of satisfaction from Dean, and Sam continues, sucking in Dean's cock and swallowing him whole. 

“Suck it, big boy,” Dean blurts out, spreading his legs and placing a hand on the back of Sam's head. “That's it, suck me fuckin' dry.”

Dean's expletives turn Sam on, the heavy, raspy timbre of his voice incredibly arousing. Sam works up a smooth rhythm, working the entire length of Dean's cock and raking his teeth along its underside on every upstroke. 

Dean begins to thrust his hips, matching Sam's ministrations. He bucks faster and faster, and eventually Sam just holds still and lets Dean fuck his mouth. 

“Squeeze 'em,” Dean pants.

Sam rolls one of Dean's nuts between his fingers, then the other. He pulls and massages Dean's sac as best he can, no mean feat since he's working to keep his mouth on Dean's dick, too. His brother's pounding him mercilessly now, and Sam can tell by Dean's breathing that he's getting close to losing his load. He backs off, his lips raw and numb, standing up and kicking off his boots and losing his jeans.

“What the fuck?” Dean protests. “I ain't finished.”

“Neither am I,” Sam says, grinning as Dean's eyes are drawn to his own neglected dick. He's pretty damn big and knows it, though he never talks it up or brags about it. Really nothing but the random effects of genetics. 

Dean, on the other hand, _definitely_ gets off on his size. And _he_ gets off on _that_. Totally awesome when a plan comes together.

“Jesus effin' Christ,” Dean murmurs, throwing himself at Sam and digging his fingers into Sam's buttcheeks. “So damn big, little bro.” He ruts against Sam, their erect dicks sliding together in a delicious friction. He sets to marking Sam's left shoulder while awkwardly walking them toward the bed. 

The backs of Sam's knees hit the edge of the mattress and he loses his balance, falling backward and bringing Dean with him. 

Dean bears down hard, his teeth breaking the surface of Sam's skin.

“Ow, man,” Sam yelps, using his elbows to move toward the center of the bed.

Dean laughs, clearly pleased with his handiwork. “That'll be there for a long time.” He knee-walks over to Sam, his cock red and pointing straight up. Dean straddles Sam's thighs, sitting on his haunches and grabbing Sam's erection. 

Sam watches as Dean wraps his other hand around his own cock, stoking both of them at once. 

“Fuck, yeah,” Dean growls, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. 

Sam lies there, watching, until Dean once again shows signs of getting off. He pushes Dean's hand from his dick and rolls his hips, knocking Dean off balance. 

“Son of a bitch!” 

Sam scoots up against the headboard and leans over to grab the tube of lube on the nightstand. He squeezes some of the goop into his palm and slathers it along the entire length of his erection. He looks up to see Dean staring like a kid seeing his first ice cream cake. “You want this?” Sam asks, making his voice as low and gravelly as possible. 

Dean nods, biting his bottom lip, his fingertips absently toying with his dick.

“Then get your ass over here and get on it.” Sam sits up, his back flat against the headboard and his legs straight out in front of him. 

Dean crawls to him, once again straddling Sam and smearing some lube around his crack and hole. His heavy cock bobs right in Sam's face as Dean lubes himself, and he finally finishes, drawing himself up and looking down at Sam. He closes his eyes, reaching around for Sam's dick and lowering himself down, wriggling around to make sure he's positioned correctly.

Sam slouches a little, grabbing Dean by the hips.

Dean pushes himself down, forcing the wide head of Sam's cock through his tight ring of muscle. He gasps and cries out, stopping for a brief second before lowering himself some more.

Sam feels Dean opening up to him and adds some pressure of his own by guiding Dean's hips downward.

Dean pants for a few seconds before shoving himself down in a single, smooth motion. He yells then, Sam fully embedded in him.

Sam sucks in deep breaths, the sensation of being encased in Dean's tight heat setting his head to spin. He jostles his hips slightly, hoping to spur Dean into action.

Dean doesn't disappoint, as he slowly lifts up a few inches, then back down again. He grasps his dick with his right hand, his left hand flat on the wall. He rises up again, higher this time, lowering himself and lifting right back up. He rides Sam's cock, up and down, up and down, stroking his own erection as he goes.

Sam sees stars as Dean picks up speed, pistoning on his throbbing cock with abandon. Dean's covered in sweat now, every flat plane and supple muscle of his body drenched in a satiny sheen, and Sam's sure he's never seen anything so fucking beautiful. 

Nothing so goddamn gorgeous as his Dean.

Sam's toes tingle as the heat mushrooms out from his groin, and he closes his eyes, gasping for air, digging his fingers into Dean's hips, thrashing his head from side to side and calling Dean's name. 

The heat explodes like a supernova, the liquid fire shooting through his veins and paralyzing him for a split second.

“Dean! Gonna go!” he manages to force out, trying to slow Dean's movements.

Dean drops down and clenches around Sam one last time, just as Sam's orgasm erupts, pouring from him and filling Dean.

Sam flings open his eyes, holding onto his brother as tightly as he can, attempting to keep his spent cock inside Dean, to maintain their bond, their connection, for as long as possible. 

He watches as Dean tortures his own dick furiously, yanking and pulling, his face a mask of concentration.

Dean's body jerks once, then twice. He groans and cries out, opening his eyes to watch as his come spatters Sam's chest and stomach, the final spurts covering his fingers. He stares down at Sam, his pupils dilated, his lips red and fuller than ever. 

Sam wraps one hand around Dean's, swirling his fingers in the spunk and licking them clean. 

Dean releases his spent cock, pressing his sticky fingers to Sam's lips.

Sam suckles all four fingers at once, then each in turn, licking and laving up Dean's release.

Dean smiles down at him, his crooked grin firmly in place. “Who's the pervert again?”

_~*~ * ~*~_

Sam pulls on a pair of sleep pants as Dean kills his cell.

“That was Bobby. He wants to meet up at that diner down the street tomorrow morning.” Dean works the towel over his hair again and dumps it to the floor. “Says he knows some psychic chick who might be able to help figure out who cracked me outta Hell.”

“Okay. Sounds good,” Sam lies, watching as Dean roots around in his duffel, extracting a pair of black boxer briefs and stepping into them. 

Which is a shame, though, as Sam would just as soon have Dean strut around in the buff all the time. Not that he doesn't look hot in his briefs, either.

They'd barely managed to get through their shower together before the hot water had turned cold. Dean'd bitched and moaned the entire time, complaining about everything from the soap to the paper thin hotel towels. 

It was all good though, almost like old times. 

Dean's back, and that's all that matters.

“So, how are you, really?” Sam asks, sitting on the bed, feeling the slightest pang of guilt for not asking the question _before_ they'd fucked themselves silly. 

“I'm good, Sammy. Don't know how or why, but I'm good.” He sits next to Sam, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together. 

“I'm just glad you're back, man. You don't know how bad it was, ya know, without you.”

Dean nods, still staring at the hideous carpet. “Pretty bad all around, I guess.” He locks gazes with Sam, but says nothing.

Sam notices the difference in Dean's eyes then. Still bright and full of piss and vinegar, but also older somehow, a hint of underlying tiredness, a weariness that hadn't been there before. “You wanna talk about it?”

Dean doesn't say anything for a long time, his eyes unfocused, far off. “Someday, maybe. I need some time, okay?"

"Sure, yeah. I understand." Sam watches as Dean's jaw muscles clench and flex. 

"Sammy, I need to know what you did to get me back."

The air's sucked right out of Sam's lungs as if he's been sucker-punched. "I did everything I could to get you back, Dean. Tracked down every demon expert I could find, researched every ritual, even thought about opening the Gate in Wyoming."

"Don't lie to me, man," Dean says quietly, still staring at the floor. "How much did it cost you?"

"I _tried_ to deal for your soul, but no demon would give me the time of day. You were rotting in Hell, and there was nothing I could do about it." Sam stares at Dean, his mind aswirl. Everything he'd said is true, so he hadn't lied. 

Dean nods slightly, finally turning to Sam. "Seriously?"

"I didn't sell my soul, man." 

"I believe you."

"Good."

"How'd you get that?" Dean nods to Sam's stitches.

"Demon in Iowa. Got the jump on me." Again, the truth.

"Fuckin' freaks. Can't wait to get back in the game and gank as many as I can." Dean yawns. "We should hit the sack. You know how cranky Bobby gets if we're late.”

“Okay, sure.” Sam gets up and rounds the right side of the bed, pulling the covers back.

“What the _hell_ are you doin'?”

“What's it look like I'm doing? I'm getting in bed, Dean.”

Dean pulls a face. “Dude, that's _always_ my side.”

Sam drops the covers and crawls across the bed. “My mistake.” He slips under the covers on _his_ side, watching as Dean hops in and makes a huge fuss arranging the sheet and blanket.

“Now what?”

“I'm making sure I've got enough covers, 'cause _someone_ always seems to steal 'em during the night.”

“Good night, Dean.”

“Sorry the truth hurts, little bro.” Dean flicks out the light, plunging the room into darkness.

Regular flashes of red from the hotel's sign wash through the two windows, with the occasional flicker of lightning from an approaching thunderstorm.

Sam lies there, staring at the ceiling, listening to Dean's breathing as it evens out into a familiar rhythm.

Lighting flashes more frequently as the rumbles of thunder grow louder.

He's gotten Dean back, and he's not going to lose him again.

He vows to do whatever it takes to keep Dean from learning the secrets of his lost summer. 

More lightning with a simultaneous crack of thunder, and the first spatters of rain from the approaching storm hit the windows.

Nothing gonna take Dean away from him again.

Nothing.

_**~*~ fin ~*~** _


End file.
